


Incomplete

by agneskamilla



Series: Incomplete [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Attempted Sexual Assault, Creature Fic, M/M, Minor Character Death, snarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-09-18 15:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 32,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9391118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agneskamilla/pseuds/agneskamilla
Summary: In a world where James Potter and Sirius Black defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort, giving their lives in the process, Lily lives her life incomplete, hiding a secret for many years. When she dies, she leaves Harry with memories, secrets, a modest inheritance and a crumbled piece of parchment in his fist with a name and address. A name he heard a lot but its owner he has never met. Severus Snape.





	1. Departure

**Author's Note:**

> First 15 chapters were originally written for the adventdrabbles community on IJ in 2014.  
> Thanks to Keyairreem for all her help.

On snowy nights like this Harry used to sit in front of the fire with his mum. She sipped a glass of wine and he had cuddled into her side when he had been smaller, later he just sat there with her and they talked about anything or everything.

It was a tradition of theirs. Last week, even if his mum was extremely weak, Harry helped her to sit at her usual spot and gave her a glass of rich, red wine. It took a tremendous effort of her fragile, wrinkled hand to support the glass, but she still wanted to give Harry one more good memory to cherish. Harry will always treasure this memory of her: hair white, skin like paper, green eyes dulled by her age but still reflecting all her love for her Harry.

She died two evenings later. If somebody had looked at her, they would have said she surely had lived a long, satisfying life, leaving this planet only after a hundred and many more years. Looks can be deceiving, as they say.

It was a well-guarded secret that she wasn’t more than forty.

“No one can know, Harry,” she always said. “People would want to use us, take advantage of what we are. You have to keep it a secret, Harry!” she warned repeatedly. ”We must hide our nature at any cost!”

So they did, and did it well. They were constantly on the move, never settling down anywhere with other people in their proximity. Harry never went to Hogwarts and was home-schooled by his mum. Lily didn’t really have any connections, she only corresponded with her sister and an old school friend.

And Harry never had anybody else but his mum, except a few visits from his aunt.

Petunia was the only one at the funeral as well. After the clergyman had finished his speech and left, they were the only two remaining by the graveside. The coffin had to be closed of course, so they both put their lilies on it before it was showered with the clods of earth.

Petunia squeezed his hand awkwardly.

“She never regretted,” Petunia said shakily. “Not for one minute. She never regretted loving your father even if it landed her like… this,” she whispered.

“I know,” Harry said, battling his tears. “She always said that Love was worth the trouble even if hers had been too short.” Harry smiled; his mum was very insistent on passing this piece of wisdom down to him.

“Do you know what you will do with your life now?” Petunia asked.

“Yes, Mum arranged an apprenticeship for me,” Harry answered.

Petunia nodded. “If you ever need me…”

“I know,” he had said shortly before they parted.

 

Harry sighs. They will never sit like this again. Now his mum is gone and he needs to move on. After the secluded life they led, it is awfully frightening. Harry is nineteen years old and lived literally by his mother’s skirt in his whole life. He helped her and took care of her in the last few years. And now he has his memories, his secrets, his modest inheritance and a crumbled piece of parchment in his fist with a name and address. A name he heard a lot but its owner he has never met.

Severus Snape.


	2. Encounter

Harry sits in a corner booth of the Dark Unicorn Barroom, studying the many customers of the tavern. The snowstorm is still raging outside thus more and more travellers seek refuge under the battered roof of the Dark Unicorn.

The inn has seen better days, as Harry learnt from the barman, Bernard, but given today’s weather conditions, it is packed to the brim with all kind of visitors, stuck here in the storm, just like Harry.

This morning Harry left the house he had lived in with his mum, bringing only his backpack that held his meagre belongings, and went to the nearby village. From there he travelled by Floo to the town nearest to Master Snape’s address. He couldn’t Apparate as he didn’t exactly know where his destination was. He decided to go on foot from there but a couple of miles from the town he was surprised by the weather and was very lucky to see the tavern at the crossroad a few hundred feet ahead.

While waiting the storm out, he chatted amicably with Bernard about the man’s one current and two former wives, his seven children, about the golden days of the Dark Unicorn, and any other topics Bernard was interested in, as he was the one who did most of the speaking while Harry listened to him empathically, here and there placing a nod or a ‘hmm’.

After a crowd had started to gather, Bernard left Harry to his musing and Harry waited patiently for the storm’s end. As it was getting late, and the blizzard didn’t give an inch, Harry decided to spend the night as well; anyway, it would have been too late to arrive at Master Snape’s doorstep at this time of night.

Harry is nursing a cup of mulled wine when the tavern’s door opens with a bang and two figures step inside, covered in snow from head to toe. With a flick of their wands, they remove the snow and sit down at the last unoccupied table not far from Harry.

Both newcomers are men, both tall and slender, but all similarities end there. One of them possesses some otherworldly beauty: porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, blond hair, and angelic face. Like he has just walked out of a fairy tale. The other, well, he is in severe contrast with his companion. Compared to the blonde he is almost ugly, with his avian-like features. His face is harsh and angular, his nose is beak-like, his hair is black and unkempt looking, and a frown is settled on his forehead, seemingly placed there for long-term, as if it has been carved into his sallow skin.

It is a ridiculous thought, Harry knows, but the second man reminds him of his old, grumpy house elf, Kreacher, who was his and his mother’s constant companion for years, after the elf’s previous master, Harry’s godfather, had died alongside Harry’s father when they had fought the Dark Lord Voldemort. When Harry was young, he found the elf’s constant grumbling kind of entertaining. Since Kreacher had died a few years previously, Harry found himself thinking of him many times.

Harry is watching the two men surreptitiously for a while, oddly fascinated, when the blonde says something that makes his dark companion laugh. It brings such a thorough change on that severe face that it leaves Harry flabbergasted. Harry – quite impolitely, his mum would surely remind him – simply stares at the man. His laugh is like a bird in the exact moment of its departure from the ground when it is grabbed by the very first rapturous moment of its flight. This must be a rare indulgence on the man’s part, Harry is sure about that. After a too-short moment the man hides the laugh, now more subdued, behind his long, elegant white hand and Harry is saddened by the man’s need to force that laugh behind any barriers.

Suddenly the tavern’s door bursts open once again, and through the roaring of the wind a man’s shout can be heard.

“Help! The horses broke out of the stables! Any able man come and help!”

Harry jumps to his feet without delay.


	3. Storm

A myriad of tiny, icy arrows attack Harry’s face and hands as soon as he steps out of the tavern’s door. A blizzard besieges the outside world, unrelenting in its rage, striking anybody who dares to defy it. Harry can barely see a thing in the furiously whirling whiteness, in spite of the light coming from the tavern’s many windows. All the men coming to help with the horses are reduced to blurry shapes in Harry’s peripheral vision. The roaring wind brings the panicked neigh of the horses to him.

“Madam Olympe’s Abraxans have broken out of the stables,” Bernard’s voice shouts from Harry’s left. “We have to get closer to them!”

Harry nods his understanding although he doubts Bernard is able to see it. Harry moves towards the source of agitated neighing, alongside several dark shapes; more than likely his fellow volunteers.

There are three gargantuan horses dancing in the storm, rearing in terror, kicking frantically with their front legs.

“We should form a circle around them,” Bernard orders the gathered helpers. “Light your wands so we will be able to see when everyone is in position.”

The group does as ordered, and a dozen lights come to life at Bernard’s words. All the men move to find their places, leaving a respectable distance between themselves and the agitated horses.

“Use a stunner on the horse closest to you on the count of three,” Bernard yells from a distance. Harry can see wand-lights on both his sides, approximately sixty feet away.

“One!”

Harry aims his still glowing wand at the horse closest to him

“Two!”

He extinguishes the light in order to be able to cast the stunner.

“Three!” Bernard shouts and all around Harry cries of “ _Stupefy!_ ” can be heard and red rays of spell-light erupt from their circle. Harry has just cast his own spell when one of the horses, obviously frightened by the lights and noises, breaks free from the circle, avoiding the stunners aimed at it, and runs towards Harry’s neighbour on the left. The man doesn’t have time to finish his spell before the beast rears again and strikes its victim on the chest with its enormous hooves. Harry moves as fast as he is able to but he still isn’t quick enough to prevent the horse before it kicks. His stunner is a moment too late, so beast and man collapse at the same moment; fortunately the horse drops to the side, and not on the man, with a thud, followed by two echoing sounds. Harry assumes that the other two Abraxans have been knocked out as well.

He runs to the man lying in the snow in a panic and falls to his knees beside him. This close to the ground the wall of whirling snow is almost impenetrable. He leans very close to the man to examine him while fumbling with the other’s clothing to find a pulse.

Thank God, it’s faint but there. The man’s breathing is ragged and he is unconscious. With a gasp Harry identifies him as the same man he scrutinized from afar not half an hour ago. His paler than ever skin almost melts into the sea of white, his ink-black hair is covered in snow, but Harry recognizes him nonetheless.

Harry runs his hand gently over the man’s chest, where the Abraxan’s hooves hit him. There is some hot wetness soaking his robes, probably blood, and there is an unnatural indentation in his sternum and ribs. His ribcage must have caved in, Harry realizes with growing panic. If he doesn’t get help soon, the man will surely die here, in the middle of a snowstorm.

“Help!” Harry cries out desperately. “Somebody is injured!” he shouts but the ever-strengthening storm is so thick that he can’t see anybody else and his voice is swept away effortlessly.

The others can’t be more than a few dozen feet away, but Harry is all alone and he needs to do something now or this man will surely die.

Harry turns his gaze around but sees literally nothing. He will have to risk it.

He puts both his hands on the man’s chest, closes his eyes and focuses. He feels lines of fire running all over his skin, drawing an intricate pattern of shining white tendrils on his whole body, twisting, curling, threads intertwining then parting constantly.

Then, suddenly, the outside world ceases to exist.

Harry is in a dimension without length, width or depth. He is in endless darkness, only the motives shining on his not-exactly-there skin giving some light. They are flowing towards something or someone meanwhile forcing Harry’s conscious along towards that illustrious destination. Then, the tendrils of liquid light reach their goal and twine around a form, caressing, protecting, healing it. And Harry’s conscious, inseparably connected to the vines, follows.

While Harry’s magic works, the formerly shapeless, dark mass in its grab starts to shine too where the tendrils connect with its surface, painting the same intricate pattern on him as well. Because it’s definitely a _him_ , the very essence of the man Harry seeks to heal.

And now, both of them are covered by the same fiery lines, connected in the inextricable tangle. Harry feels warm and safe and like he belongs. It is like submerging in the other and finding home there.

The experience ends too soon.

Harry emerges with a soft sigh, straight back into the storm. He is exhausted but content. The man is still unconscious but he will live.

Harry removes his hands from the once again normally arched ribcage. The web of light decorating both of their bodies fades quickly.

“Mr Potter, where are you?” he hears Bernard’s shout from nearby.

“Here, we are here!” he yells back.

Suddenly the barman stands by Harry’s side, in the company of other patrons. Bernard crouches down beside Harry and his patient.

“What happened?” the barman inquires.

“He got injured but it wasn’t that serious,” Harry lies and he is grateful that the wind-induced rose of his cheeks covers his blush. “I used a basic healing spell to be sure,” Harry continues. “He was knocked out by one of the horses. We should get him inside,” he says.

Somebody conjures a stretcher and they carefully move the man onto it.

Bowing their heads in the face of the blizzard’s rage, the group starts towards the dimmed lights of the tavern.


	4. Night-time

With a tired sigh, Harry changes the cold compress on the man’s forehead once again. It is now the wee hours of the night but Harry’s patient is still running a fever and he is still unconscious.

The storm has finally quieted down, and now silence blankets both the outside world and the inside of the tavern.

Harry has been sitting by the man’s bedside for hours; ever since they brought him in and laid him down in the room he previously rented for the night, according to Bernard.  Bernard’s second wife, who is a qualified Mediwitch, examined the man and declared that he had a mild concussion and was in need of natural sleep, but she found no remaining damage. Harry was relieved beyond words.  She also said that the man needed supervision until he woke up, and Harry volunteered to sit with him.

The injured man’s blond companion was there when they brought the man in – he had been waiting for the dark man’s return in the warm security of the pub – and asked about the dark man’s state, but after learning that he would be all right, the blonde excused himself and hasn’t returned yet. Harry finds that odd. He cannot fathom what is so important for the blonde to leave his companion in a stranger’s care. Although Harry isn’t complaining.

In spite of Harry’s best efforts the fever still hasn’t broken. Harry suspects it is because of magical shock; after all, Harry used a highly intrusive magical method in the man’s very core to heal him, and the excess amount of foreign magic in the man’s body hasn’t settled yet.

Harry removes the compress and lays his hand on the marble-white forehead. His magic reaches out to soothe the agitated energy working under the other’s skin and the same glowing patterns that previously covered their skins act up once again, leaving them in a sphere of soft light. Harry sees the red roses of fever on the man’s cheeks retreat.

Harry sighs in relief and removes his hand.

“What are you doing to him?” an unpleasant voice inquires suddenly.

Harry, caught and slightly panicky, turns to see the blond man in the door, eyeing him with a frown. He frantically searches his brain for an acceptable answer. “His fever is acting up again, so I applied a cooling charm,” Harry lies.

The blonde narrows his eyes in suspicion. “I am grateful for your services but I think you should leave now. I will stay by his side,” he says coldly and doesn’t sound grateful at all.

Harry is extremely reluctant to leave, but knows that he has no legitimate reason to be here anymore.  He stands up. “He has been stirring in the past half an hour. He will probably wake up soon and will need a headache potion. Bernard promised to supply me with one but he must have forgotten it in all this chaos.”

“Bernard?” The blonde looks as if he smelled something unpleasant.

“The barman,” Harry clarifies.

“I see,” the other man says in a condescending tone.

“I can go and fetch the potion,” Harry offers.

The blonde nods dismissively and takes Harry’s place beside the bed.

Harry leaves the room and immediately stumbles upon a man lying on the corridor, dressed only in a strategically placed Santa’s hat. He is not the only patron sprawled out in Harry’s path towards the bar; many spent the night, confined within the walls of the tavern because of the blizzard, in the company of a bottle or three of some alcoholic beverage. The house is filled with the noises of snoring.

Harry finds Bernard in the kitchen, bleary eyed and exhausted. Harry asks for the potion and Bernard gives it to him with an apology for the delay in delivering it.

“No problem, this was a busy night,” Harry reassures him. “Are the horses settled once again?” he asks.

“Yes, but the damage in the stables is extensive.” Bernard sighs.

“Maybe I will be able to help with that tomorrow,” Harry offers. “At home it was always me who did the household repairs.”

Bernard agrees gratefully and they bid each other goodnight.

Harry walks back into his patient’s room, and is slowly opening the door when he hears voices from within. He recognizes the blond man’s whiny timbre followed by another, much darker and rustier voice. He silently steps inside and sees the blonde leaning over the other man, wiping his forehead with a cool and wet cloth just like Harry did for the last few hours. The dark haired occupant of the bed, once again conscious, is watching the blonde with an almost-smile on his face.

Harry hears only snippets of their quiet conversation.

“…for taking care of me…” the dark man says hoarsely.

“…no hardship… the same for me,” his blonde companion answers. They have eyes only for each other and never see Harry in the door.

The whole scene is painfully tender and intimate. With an inexplicable ache in his chest Harry realizes that he is not needed here. He leaves the potion bottle on the table next to the door and quietly leaves the room, to finally head towards his own bed for some rest.

It comes to Harry’s mind only after reaching his own room that he doesn’t know the name of his patient, nor the blond man’s, for that matter. They were never introduced.


	5. Introductions

Harry feels as if he was on an expedition at the North Pole: he stands in the middle of an endless field of snow, with no sign of civilisation in sight. The snowflakes dance around him with increasing vigour, tickling his nose almost constantly, promising a storm once again.

After leaving the Dark Unicorn with one more day delay, because of the renovation work made on the stables, Harry searches for Master Snape’s home seemingly in vain. The house should be right in front of him, but Harry sees nothing. He pulls out the parchment with the address from his pocket and checks it one more time.

_Master Severus Snape_

_Prince Chateau_

_Northumberland_

According to one of Master Snape’s letter’s instructions it should be right… Oh.

Out of nowhere a country mansion appears a few hundred feet in front of Harry. It’s a sombre, grey, two-storey house, not overly large but robust and unfriendly looking.

As Harry walks towards the building, he thinks that no matter how much the house’s surroundings resemble the North Pole, this mansion is nothing like the residence he would imagine for Santa Claus. Not that Harry has any evidence that Master Snape resembles Santa Claus in any way; on the contrary. The man is the same age as Harry’s mother, so he shouldn’t look like a jovial old man, but still, whenever Harry imagines him, he is always one. It must be because of the fact that Harry’s mother always looked like a very old woman ever since Harry could remember, so Harry’s imagination portrays her schoolmate advanced in age as well. Harry knows how stupid this is.

When reaching the front door he knocks immediately before he could lose his bravery. While waiting, he adjusts his glasses and clothes nervously, his heart beating loudly in his chest and his knees slightly trembling.

The door opens with an ominous creak and a house-elf with enormous green eyes and bat-like ears greets Harry with a deep bow.

“Welcome to Prince Chateau,” the little creature squeaks. “Who is you, sir?” he – because it’s definitely a male – inquires.

“Um… Hullo,” Harry greets awkwardly. “I’m Harry Potter and I’m looking for Master Snape.”

“You comes in, Harry Potter, sir, and Dobby shows you to Master Snape,” the elf, Dobby, invites him in and Harry steps into the house. It’s just as dark and intimidating inside as it was outside.

“You follows,” the elf instructs and Harry obeys. He trails behind the elf as it walks along a dark, narrow corridor leading to a double door. The elf opens the door and bows to the occupants of the room behind it.

“Mister Harry Potter is here, sirs,” the elf announces and steps out of the way to let Harry in.

Harry takes a step then freezes on the threshold.

Two awfully familiar men stand inside the room. One of them is beautiful in his paleness but as cold as winter itself, the other is fascinating in his contradicting darkness.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” blurts out the blonde with open animosity.

Harry, quite literally, is rendered speechless.

The dark man eyes Harry with an unnerving scrutiny.

“Speak up, boy,” he says impatiently after a few moments of awkward silence.

“I… um… I’m Harry Po… Potter, sir” Harry stutters and feels a blush rising on his cheeks. “I’m here to meet Master Severus Snape.”

“Indeed,” the dark man says scowling, featuring a displeased expression.

“ _You_? Harry Potter?” the blonde asks incredulously.

His mother’s careful training regarding polite behaviour kicks in and Harry bows to the both of them.

“Yes, sir. I am honoured to make your acquaintance,” he says.

The dark man nods. “Likewise, Mr Potter. I am Severus Snape and this is my senior apprentice, Draco Malfoy.” His words are cordial but his almost-smile is clearly mocking Harry.

Gods, he is no jovial old man for sure.

“Your mother informed me of your wish to become my apprentice and your impending arrival,” he goes on, but after mentioning Harry’s mum, something softens in his face. Harry’s heart sinks. “How is she, if I may inquire?” Snape asks almost kindly.

The question is like a kick in the guts. The man doesn’t know that Harry’s mother… That she is… Gods, and now Harry has to tell him, even if he himself can barely say it out aloud.

“She… she is…” His anguish makes Harry’s throat close up. “She died a little more than a week ago, sir,” Harry manages in a whisper.

Master Snape’s face loses all its colour. Harry is afraid that the man will faint.

“What?” Snape hisses.

“I am sorry, sir,” Harry says, his voice trembling.

“But how… what happened?” Snape asks almost frantically; his eyes are shining with his raw pain.

“She was… ill,” Harry answers. “Some genetic disorder,” he supplies the explanation they come up with together with his mum.

“A genetic… Why didn’t she tell me?” Snape asks miserably. “I could have helped. Come up with a cure or…” Desperation drips from his every word.

Harry understands; after all, this man was his mum’s best friend, even if they hadn’t met for almost two decades.

“She was incurable. Nothing could have been done; not by magical or even Muggle means,” Harry tries to reassure Snape.

“How do you know?” Snape snaps. “You are a mere slip of a boy. I should have…”

“You couldn’t have,” says Harry as firmly as possible “She went away in peace,” he adds as much for Snape’s comfort as his own.

“I… I need to… Excuse me,” Snape says and walks to the door. “Draco, show Mr Potter to his room,” he adds over his shoulder and flees the room abruptly. He leaves a stunned silence in his wake.

Malfoy examines Harry with a disapproving frown.

“Just because you are the spawn of Oh-So-Famous-War-Hero-James-Potter,” he mocks, “and Precious-Pampered-Godson-of-Saviour-Sirius-Black don’t expect any special treatment from me!” he snaps.

“Dobby,” Malfoy turns to the elf. “Escort Potter to the guest room on the second floor,” he instructs haughtily. “Breakfast is at eight. Don’t be late,” he tells Harry and leaves the room without giving Harry the chance to utter a single word.


	6. Observation

Severus stands at the library’s window and gazes out on the endless whiteness with unfocused eyes. The snow was falling all night, stopping only after dawn. The ground is covered in a knee-deep, soft blanket. Severus spent most of the night here, unable to sleep. His thoughts strayed to his childhood friend, his estranged confidant, recalling the fondest shared memories of their childhood. He reread many of her letters while sipping whiskey against the clench in his chest. It proved to be a long night.

The unmoving whiteness is suddenly disturbed by a human form moving through it with obvious difficulty. The figure is covered from head to toe in winter attire against the cold and comes from the direction of the house. In the middle of the lawn it stops, turns around and simply falls backward onto the snow with arms outstretched. Then the figure starts to move its arms and legs back and forth as if it was performing some ridiculous Muggle jumping exercise.

“What the heck is that nitwit doing there?” asks an incredulous voice from Severus’ side.

“I presume that Mr Potter is in the process of producing a snow angel,” Severus turns towards Draco.

The blonde pulls a disgusted face. Severus doesn’t reveal that Lily and he made many of these snow creatures in their own youth.

“How… unsophisticated,” Draco says clearly unimpressed. “But what else should we expect from such a simpleton?” he adds condescendingly.

“I have had the impression since yesterday that you two know each other,” Severus asks without forming a question.

Draco curls his lips. “He was there in that deplorable excuse for a tavern the other day,” he says.

Severus frowns. “I don’t seem to recall him.”

Draco shrugs. “I am not surprised; there is nothing remarkable about him.”

Severus only hums while he is watching as Potter ceases his weird acrobatics and carefully gets up from the snow, trying not to wreck his creation. He turns his back towards the house to admire the snow angel; his entire backside is covered with snow. Severus’ lips turn almost imperceptibly upwards.

Draco wrinkles his nose and continues. “I remember him only because he was constantly underfoot when you were brought in after the accident and while you were treated. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole incident turned out to be his fault; he more than likely annoyed the old nags with his mere stupidity,” he says with absolute conviction.

Severus doesn’t remember much of that particular affair. He can recall getting outside with several others in an attempt to subdue the enraged Abraxans, forming a circle in the storm, then an enormous strike to his chest. After that he remembers only a blurry image of a form covered in intricate patterns of luminescence light, and a vague feeling of warmth and belonging.  From Draco’s retelling he knows that he was knocked out, carried inside and taken care of by his senior apprentice.

Probably this ethereal image is his subconscious’ fancy way to represent Draco; all the boys paleness translates into this… insubstantial lightness, conjured up by his delusional mind. Severus snorts. The whole thing is way too sentimental for his liking.

Draco must interpret his snort as a reaction to Potter’s activities.

“Ridiculous, isn’t he?” the blonde asks with a snort of his own.

Potter starts towards the house with a tiny spring in his steps.

“We should get to the dining room. The elf probably has served breakfast already,” Severus says.

“He’d better! I am starving,” Draco whines.

“In this case,” Severus gestures with his arm towards the door, “after you.”

Draco departs and Severus follows but not before glancing outside once again. Potter already vanished from sight, but his snow angel remains, adorning Severus’ front lawn.


	7. Rescheduling

Harry arrives for breakfast a few minutes before eight o’clock. After his tomfoolery in the garden he is a bit flushed but definitely refreshed. Creating snow angels was a favourite activity of theirs with his mother and after his discussion with Master Snape the previous evening and a long, sad night spent in an unfamiliar house he needed a reminder of the good times they had with his mum.

If it had depended on Malfoy, Harry would have died from starvation: it was still early afternoon when he sent Harry to his room and he didn’t bother with offering dinner, only threatened him not to be late from breakfast. Fortunately Dobby served dinner to Harry. The elf turned out to be good company, if a bit overly excitable.

Breakfast is an awkward affair; Harry tries to remain as inconspicuous as possible, Malfoy eyes him with obvious suspicion, and sends disgusted looks in the direction of Harry’s Christmas sweater which features an amorphous reindeer on its front. It is true that the jumper is quite ugly, but it was a present from his mum – from her period of trying then failing to become a knitting-expert – and Harry currently needs the comfort it offers. Meanwhile Snape is lost in his thoughts, hardly looking up from his untouched dish. He is extremely pale and worn-out. Harry suspects that he didn’t sleep at all.

“Are… are you… um, all right, sir?” Harry’s mouth stutters the question without his brain’s permission. As soon as the words are out, he realizes how inane the question is: of course the man is not all right, he has just lost his friend. Harry blushes deeply.

Snape looks up and his gaze mirrors Harry’s opinion about the stupidity of the inquiry and the one who uttered it.

Malfoy sends Harry a calculating look and turns in Snape’s direction with narrowed eyes. After a short examination he puts his hand on Snape’s wrist somewhat possessively – at least in Harry’s opinion.

“You look pale, Severus. Maybe you should rest and I…” Malfoy starts to suggest but he is interrupted.

“There is no cause for your concern,” Snape says impatiently. “I am perfectly fine and capable of taking care of myself.” He is clearly irritated.

“As you wish.” Malfoy retreats sullenly.

Harry casts his eyes down.

“Mr Potter, have I accurately concluded from your mother’s letters that you were home-schooled?” Snape’s attention focuses on Harry.

Harry looks up to answer shyly. “Yes, sir.”

“Why was that?” the man wants to know.

“My mother thought it was for the better, given the hype surrounding Father and Sirius,” Harry replies, and he isn’t lying just not telling the _whole_ reasoning behind his mother’s decision. At the mention of his father and godfather, Snape’s face darkens. “And lately this arrangement had the advantage of me being able to help her around the house,” Harry adds with bittersweet nostalgia.

Snape’s lips narrow into an impossibly thin line. Harry suspects that he is angry about Lily not informing him about her decaying health.

“Have you taken any exams independently?” Snape asks sternly.

“I received passing grades on my NEWTs in Charms, Transfiguration, Potions and Herbology, sir,” Harry gives Snape a rundown.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rise in clear disbelief.

“Indeed?” Snape asks; his expression is not so easy to read.

“Yes, Mum insisted. She was especially good with Charms and Potions, but she also tutored me in the other subjects,” Harry says.

Snape contemplates that for a few moments before he asks, “What kind of education do you seek from me?”

“You are a renowned spellsmith, sir,” Harry says and a blush colours his cheeks once again. “I’m sure that I could learn a lot from you in the area of spellcrafting. It’s a fascinating subject.” By the time he finishes, Harry’s face is beet-red.

“Yes, that is true; I can also teach you defensive magic and I may be able to enhance your knowledge in Potions, if you wish so,” Snape offers.

Harry is quite awed; Master Snape is definitely a multi-talented individual.

“I would really like that, sir,” Harry agrees enthusiastically.

Malfoy’s gaze flickers between the two of them, getting nastier by the minute.

“What kind of goal would you like to achieve by learning all of this from me?” Snape goes on with his semi-interrogation.

“I haven’t decided on a particular area yet,” Harry admits. “I’m interested in healing but not sure yet.” He shrugs embarrassed. In someone’s eyes who is as knowledgeable as Master Snape, he must seem to be stupid with his wobbly plans and ideas.

“I see,” Snape only says. “I will present a detailed schedule for you soon enough, but for today, we shall meet in my basement laboratory in one hour.” It is more of an order than a request.

“But Severus, what about my training?” Malfoy protests indignantly.

“You can work on the research I appointed to you,” Snape tells him calmly.

“But the morning is usually the time for my practical lessons with you,” Malfoy argues.

“With the arrival of Mr Potter some rescheduling is needed. Surely you can understand that, Draco?” Snape asks a tad impatiently. “Later on, as a senior apprentice, you will have a part in Mr Potter’s training.”

That last bit of information placates Malfoy somewhat; he nods reluctantly, but his acceptance seems insincere to Harry.

With that established, Snape leaves the room, without touching his breakfast. Malfoy gives Harry an angry look before storming after Snape.


	8. Lecture

Snape’s laboratory consists of a spacious main chamber and several smaller rooms opening from there. The main chamber is mostly empty except for the shelves covering almost every available square inch of the walls, stuffed with books and other magical items which Harry doesn’t recognize.

“This area is used for trying out experimental spells,” Snape explains. “The place is heavily warded, of course.”

Harry nods his understanding.

“Today I will introduce you to the basics of spellcrafting. Pull your wand,” he instructs Harry with his own wand firmly in hand.

Harry takes out his mahogany wand from under his sleeve.

Snape frowns when he catches sight of Harry’s wand.

“Is that yours?” he asks.

“Yes, sir. Once it belonged to my father,” Harry answers.

“Yes, I can see that,” Snape replies with a dark expression.

“You didn’t like my dad,” Harry states. He is not judgemental, albeit curious. He heard his fair share of stories from his mum.

“I found nothing to like about him in the many years I knew him,” Snape spits angrily.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Harry says honestly.

“Indeed?” Snape eyes him suspiciously, as if waiting for something. “I find pity highly repulsive, Mr Potter.”

“And you won’t get any from me, sir,” Harry promises. “Although my mum told me that you had a long-going enmity between you and Dad and Uncle Sirius, I never knew them, not really. I don’t even remember them,” he admits.

Snape chooses to avoid the subject of Harry’s father and godfather. “Why have you never purchased a wand of your own?”

“This one works well for me,” he shrugs, “and mum really didn’t like to visit Diagon Alley, or any crowded place like that. Sometimes we went there of course, wearing a disguise, but…”

“A disguise?” Snape interrupts, his face full of suspicion.

Shit. Harry didn’t want to let this bit of information slip.

“Yes, because of the hysteria surrounding the widow of a National Hero,” Harry tries to save face.

Snape scowls in obvious disgust at the title and seems to be accepting Harry’s explanation.

Instead of asking more questions, he starts lecturing. “The essence of creating new spells is transforming your intention into movements and words. While the crafter must have an aptitude for channelling his intention directly into magic, without words, the average wizard is not capable of that. Thus the spellsmith has to translate for the masses, give them tools so they’ll be able to call upon magic for the same effects,” Snape explains.

Harry tries his damnedest to understand.

After Harry’s affirming nod, Snape continues. “The spellsmith must let their purpose permeate their mind, must let it take over their every thought, leading their wand in a pattern that represents their aim the best. Only after finding the appropriate wand movement comes the incantation; the spellsmith calls the magic by its name,” Snape explains cryptically.

Harry is confused. “Its name, sir?” he asks.

“Yes, you call out the name and thus summon the magic to do your deed,” Snape says.

“So you have to come up with a fitting name… And the crafter is the one who chooses the name? For example, Wingardium Leviosa was the creator’s choice when they wanted to christen the spell to lift something?” Harry tries to understand. “They could have thought out something easier or shorter,” he muses. “Wait, must it be in Latin?”

“No, but it is more practical, because Latin is not an area-specific language.” Snape says this as it should be obvious.

“Could have the levitation charm been called, I don’t know, Wingybingy Thingy in place of its current incantation?” Harry asks smiling.

Snape snorts. “Not likely. You will find that the magic prefers more dignified names, those that suit its purpose somewhat,” he answers. “Magic is more than random boosts of energy. In this regard, you should think about it as an entity; once you utter an appropriate name which is accepted by it, then anybody can summon it again, with the right intentions, using the same name.”

Harry struggles to take all of this in. “Sounds very complicated.”

“Let me demonstrate. One of the first spells I crafted was based on the intention to… remove certain … threatening elements from my vicinity,” he explains.

Harry has his suspicions of the identity of those _elements_.

“I needed to let this intent rule my movements.” Snape demonstrates with the swift, circular movement of his wand.

“After that I only needed to find the magical words, in this case, _Levicorpus!”_

Harry is suddenly hanging in mid-air by his ankle, while Snape is smirking at him.

“And voila, with the same incantation now anybody is able to have the same effects, if they wish so,” he finishes.

“Wicked,” Harry praises with a smile.

“ _Liberacorpus!_ ” A smug looking Snape releases him with a downward jerk of his wand.

After finding his footing once again Harry asks, “How old were you when you came up with this one?”

“Fifteen,” Snape says proudly.

“That’s impressive,” Harry exclaims. He wonders if Master Snape ever used the same spell on his father.

“The first thing you must learn, Mr Potter, is to turn your intention into a magical act without the help of words or pre-designed wand movements,” Snape continues the lecture. “For a start, imagine some change to your surroundings, something you don’t know a spell for, and try to channel this aim into magic,” Snape instructs.

Harry nods and concentrates.

For moments nothing happens, but then the hardwood floor under their feet turns into grass. Pink grass.

Harry beams. Snape seems to be surprised.

“I didn’t expect you to be able to manage it this soon,” Snape says. “You seem to have an aptitude for this area,” he adds somewhat grudgingly.

Harry’s smile almost splits his face into two.

Snape goes on. “If we wished to turn what you just did into an actual spell, then we would need to find an appropriate wand movement and incantation to represent it. I hope mankind will forgive us if we don’t strive to immortalize this particular bit of magic.” He frowns at the pink grass under them, clearly disgusted. “You may start practicing this first step. And for heaven’s sake, Potter, banish this monstrosity!”

Harry does, with a smile.


	9. Outing

Days pass quietly. Harry learns a lot from Snape, and best of all, he is having fun all through the process. The man is brilliant; he possesses dark humour and a cutting tongue. Harry learns that he doesn’t tolerate tardiness, or anything he perceives idiocy, ignorance or simply being a dunderhead. He can’t be called tolerant, patient or tender at all, but still… Harry finds him, well… he hasn’t found the word to describe him yet. Fascinating comes close or maybe impressive; awe-inspiring even, and… well, he hasn’t found the right word yet.

Malfoy ignores Harry mostly and, more often than not, avoids him. He, more than likely, finds Harry’s company below him. His disapproval of Harry’s trespassing on his territory is clear.

Harry becomes fast-friends with the house-elf, Dobby. He tends to get overzealous but he is still a friendly, kind soul, and Harry likes spending time with him, speaking (gossiping, really) about this and that, but mostly the other occupants of the house. Harry learns from Dobby that Master Snape has a sweet-tooth, prefers working late at night to early in the morning, hates shepherd’s pie and he, from time to time, enjoys a brandy with a good crime story.

Harry also learns that the Malfoys are a very old, pure-blood family, and Dobby came to live here two years ago, when his young master, Draco, moved in. Although house-elves are loyal to their families and don’t say anything against them, Harry has the impression that Dobby prefers living here to living at Malfoy Manor.

This particular morning, it seems, will deviate from their norm.

“I have to go to the village today,” Snape announces after breakfast. “If you wish, I’m willing to take you there as well,” he offers to both of his apprentices.

“Yes, please do,” replies Malfoy immediately. “I have some more Christmas shopping to do. Although, I have my doubts about finding anything acceptable here, at the far end of nothing,” Malfoy says derogatively.

Snape nods. “And you, Potter?” he turns towards Harry.

“I would like to come, too, if it’s not too much of a trouble,” he replies.

Malfoy murmurs something under his breath but Snape, it seems, doesn’t hear.

“All right. We may leave in half an hour. I don’t wish to walk in knee-deep snow and we cannot Apparate right into the village because of the Muggles, so we may use the sleigh,” Snape tells them.

Malfoy doesn’t seem exactly happy. He murmurs about stupid horses and Muggles.

Harry is surprised. “A sleigh? As in a horse-drawn sleigh?” he inquires.

“Indeed, Mr Potter,” says Snape.

“I didn’t know you have horses, sir,” Harry admits.

“Not horses. Just one horse,” Snape specifies.

“One too many,” Malfoy grumbles under his breath.

Snape ignores him. “Captain is stationed in the old stables and the elf takes care of him. He is the last one of my grandfather’s horses; he is old, but with the help of a Featherlight Charm, he will manage the sleigh ride adequately.” He seems confident enough.

Harry grins; he has never participated in a sleigh ride and can’t wait to try it.

Thirty minutes later they sit on the sleigh comfortably – no doubt thanks to an Undetectable Extension Charm – Snape in the middle, handling the rein, and the boys on both sides. Captain, the grey gelding trots towards the village proudly.

A smile is plastered on Harry’s face for the whole journey; Malfoy looks greener by the minute.

In the village all three of them go on their separate ways. Harry purchases gifts: a bottle of wine for Bernard – it’s kind of odd, given that the man owns a pub, but still – and one more for Malfoy, to be polite. A sewing set for Aunt Petunia and a dragon figurine for Dudley – Harry remembers that Petunia complained about Dudley constantly playing with some computer game featuring dragons. Only the sweets are left for Dobby and Master Snape. Harry secretly hopes that he will find something more… special to give the man besides the sweets. Maybe a book? Or a fine brandy? Harry hasn’t decided yet.

There is a bunch of Christmas crackers in the display window of Monsieur Caramel’s Sweet Shop; Harry smiles when he sees them. He cannot imagine Master Snape pulling one with anybody, not to mention wearing any paper hats. Harry giggles at the thought.

Harry finds aforementioned gentleman in the sweet shop, accompanied by a very old man with long white hair and beard, wearing half-moon shaped glasses and an instant smile after seeing Harry.

“Good morning, sirs,” Harry greets the men.

“Potter,” Snape grumbles.

“Ah, good morning, dear boy!” the old man returns the greeting enthusiastically. “You must be Harry Potter, Severus’ young apprentice!”

“Yes, sir,” Harry admits slightly embarrassed.

“Nice to meet you, young man.” The man holds out his hand. “I am Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry shakes the offered hand briefly. “I’m glad to meet you, sir.”

Dumbledore’s penetrating gaze makes Harry blush.

“The pleasure is all mine,” the man says. ”How is your education going thus far?”

“Fine, sir. Master Snape is a very good teacher,” Harry adds, his blush getting more pronounced.

“Oh, indeed, that he is,” Dumbledore chuckles. Snape frowns deeply. “I have tried to persuade him to come and teach in my school for years, but he has been unrelenting,” he says with twinkling eyes.

“I cannot stand adolescents and you know that, Albus,” Snape answers with a repulsed expression.

“Some of them are tolerable; pleasant even,” Albus says and he winks at Harry.

“Doubtful,” Snape replies sourly.

“Are you here for some festive confectionery, Mr Potter? Nothing better to celebrate with than chocolate or even better, sherbet lemon.” Dumbledore’s face lights up at the mention of the sweets.  “Not to say that it’s always excellent as a gift,” he adds mischievously, giving a brief glance to Snape.

“Agreed, sir. Although I prefer chocolate,” Harry admits with a smile; he cannot hold back, the old man’s enthusiasm for sweets is quite endearing.

“Understandable,” Dumbledore accepts with a nod. “I just purchased my monthly amount of sherbet lemon; hopefully I will have the accomplishment of a long overdue task as a reason to celebrate in a short while. I will inform you about my progress, Severus. If all goes well, the deed will be done by Christmas. Only one more, the seventh, to go!” He is clearly enthusiastic about the matter.

“Last or not, you should be careful, Headmaster,” Snape advises the old man with a deep frown. ”One may never know what can be expected from _him,_ ” he warns ominously.

The headmaster’s smile remains undisturbed.

“Not to worry, my boy,” Dumbledore tries to placate Snape. The latter, obviously irritated by the dismissal of his worries, attempts to say something else, but the headmaster doesn’t give him a chance.  “I leave you to your shopping now; I have intercepted you for long enough. Have a beautiful day, dear boys!”

With a swiftness belying his age Dumbledore is already halfway through the shop when Snape and Harry utter their own goodbyes.

Snape huffs, probably because of the man addressing him as a _boy_.

“He is something else,” Harry summarizes his impressions.

Snape snorts. “You can say that. Are you ready to return to the mansion?” he inquires.

“Um, not quite, sir. I need a few more things to buy. Twenty minutes more?” Harry pleads.

Snape rolls his eyes. “If you must. See you at the sleigh in a quarter of an hour, Potter.”

“But, sir…” Harry starts to protest, but he is interrupted.

“If I were you I wouldn’t waste my time,” Snape advises with a smirk.

Harry hurries to the counter to buy some chocolate, and probably a small amount of sherbet lemon, just to try it out.


	10. Greetings

_Dear Aunt Petunia,_

_Happy Holidays!_

_I hope you and your family are all well, and there will be no catching the seasonal cold for Dudley this year._

_With me, everything is fine. I learn a lot from Master Snape. He is a tough teacher, but I can clearly see what made Mum become friends with him. He is very smart and funny – although his humour sometimes stings – and has quite a temper (some common ground with Mum, don’t you think?)._

_I am wishing you and yours Joy and Peace at Christmas and throughout the New Year!_

_Harry_

 

Harry finishes the card with a satisfied nod and puts it in an envelope. Later he will have to visit the Muggle post office in the village and send it to Petunia.

It is still early and the house is quiet as everyone else is still sleeping, but Harry has been up for some time, and his stomach reminds him that it will need some sustenance. He descends to the kitchen to find something to eat. Harry remembers Dobby mentioning that Master Snape appreciates pancakes for breakfast. Maybe Harry should make some? He opens the cupboard to check if the necessary ingredients are available, when with a loud pop, the elf appears beside him.

“What is Dobby can get for Mr Potter?” he asks with an eager smile.

“Good morning, Dobby. I am fine, thank you. Just thought that I would make some pancakes for breakfast. Do you know if we have everything needed for that?” he asks the little creature cheerfully.

The elf’s eyes widen and he shakes his head frantically.

“No, no!” He pulls agitatedly both his ears. “Mr Potter is must not cook! Dobby is must be the one does the cooking!” he protests vehemently.

“It’s fine, I can do it myself,” Harry tries to reassure him.

“You is must not!” the elf shouts scandalised. “A Malfoy elf is must do what is told; Mistress Malfoy told Dobby to cook for young Master and Master Snape!” He definitely looks panicked now, tearing his ears with such force that Harry is afraid that he will hurt himself.

“Oh, I see. Calm down, I won’t make you go against her wishes.” Harry puts his hands on the distressed elf’s shoulders and tries to placate him. “Did she also tell you that nobody else might cook for them but you?” he asks.

“Nooo…” the elf admits, his trembling and ear-pulling easing a bit.

“Then would it be against her exact orders to let me do the cooking?” Harry inquires further.

“Nooo… but young Master would be angry at Dobby and then Dobby musts punish himself!” the elf explains, his agitation once more at full force.

Harry is concerned that he will remove his ears. “And what if we don’t tell anyone that I made the breakfast?” he tries to find a way.

The elf pauses. “Dobby not knows. Malfoy elf musts prepare the perfect meal what a Malfoy deserves,” he quotes, giving Harry a calculating look.

Harry laughs. “I see… so you have doubts if I can produce a meal worthy of a Malfoy elf? Fine, then you may check it before we serve, is that acceptable?” he asks, his eyes pleading the elf to let him do this small favour for Master Snape.

“Dobby is thinks so…” Dobby agrees reluctantly. “But no telling, Harry Potter, that it was you!”

“It is a deal!” Harry accepts with a big smile and he immediately starts to work.

Later Harry is convinced that all the work was worth the sparks in Master Snape’s eyes as he devours possibly the tenth pancake generously covered with chocolate spread.

Harry smiles. “Enjoying your breakfast, sir?” Harry ask mischievously.

Snape covers his joyful expression with a scowl, although the tiny patch of chocolate in the corner of his mouth dampens its effect.

“It is adequate,” he says calmly. “I have a negligible amount of… fondness for pancakes.”

Harry’s smile only grows. “Really?”

Malfoy, who has followed the short exchange staring daggers, chimes in. “In this case it’s a good thing that I ordered the elf to make some for you, isn’t it?”  

Snape looks surprised then pleased. “Indeed, it was very thoughtful of you, Draco.”

Harry is seething, but he cannot say a word, he promised to Dobby. He shots an angry look at Malfoy, who ignores him completely.

Suddenly a pile of letters pops into existence beside Snape’s elbow; he prefers to sort his post at breakfast. He handles an envelope to Malfoy, and surprisingly another to Harry. Harry cannot fathom who could send him a letter, especially in a bright blue envelope on which Harry’s name and address has been written with a sparkling purple ink.

Harry opens the letter curiously.

It contains a Christmas card from Albus Dumbledore; the gaudiest card Harry has ever seen, sporting every colour of the rainbow and then some. It says:

 _The Magic of Christmas never ends_  
and its greatest of gifts  
are family and friends.  
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Harry grins widely and looks up to see Snape holding a similar, overly-colourful card. There is a soft expression on the man’s face, not quite a smile, but almost. Seeing it makes Harry feel warm.

He pulls his eyes away from Snape and meets the gaze of a scowling Malfoy, who holds a card with an elegantly designed coat of arms on it.

The blonde gives Harry one last, nasty look then he turns to Snape.

“Severus,” he says. “Mother sends you her best wishes for the season,” Malfoy delivers the message. “She also wishes to inform you that she hopes to pay us a visit on the Winter Solstice, if you agree, alongside with my Aunt Bellatrix.”

The previous hint of a not-quite-a-smile disappears from Snape’s face and his mouth turns into a barely visible line.

“But of course,” he drawls. “I am looking forward to it.”

Somehow, Harry doesn’t believe him. Seeing Malfoy’s smug and malicious expression he has the feeling that he shouldn’t look forward to the visit either.


	11. Exposure

Harry sighs as he reaches for the umpteenth horned slug and eviscerates it with familiar and practiced motions. The animal’s still usable parts he collects into a barrel, the waste he throws into the appropriate bin. He has more prepared slugs than he needs for today’s assigned potion, but he makes more, because he knows how Snape hates the mundane job of dealing with ingredients. Moreover, disgusting ingredients.

Harry pulls a face as he removes the guts of one more slimy creature and looks in the direction of his two housemates, stationed in the opposite corner of the room. They are discussing some theory or other, judging by their passionate debate. Malfoy practically stands in Snape’s aura, and he is still getting closer with every breath he takes, leaning into Snape, seeking Snape’s body out with his own, certainly able to smell him from this proximity, and maybe even close enough to feel the man’s breath on his cheek… Harry’s knife slips and he cuts his finger; before he has time to react, his magic heals the wound without his conscious effort, flashing its intricate patterns all over Harry’s skin for a moment. He sends a panicked glance towards his companions but they haven’t registered that anything happened. Still, the incident is worrisome; Harry’s magic is acting weird and erratic nowadays.

Harry doesn’t know why.

His lessons are going relatively well, at least in two subjects out of three. It doesn’t come as a surprise: Potions he practiced with his mum, and he has a natural aptitude for performing magic based only on intent – that is how his hidden powers work, after all, although those powers are limited, available mostly in the area of Life Magic. Also, he needs to suppress those abilities for fear of being discovered; it’s fortunate that his mother taught him the traditional usage of magic, the _proper_ way with a wand and incantations. Nonetheless, he is proceeding in his Spellcraft studies satisfactorily. The difficult part of the subject is to come up with an appropriate name for the newly developed spells.

The one subject he struggles with is Defensive Magic, or more appropriately, using offense as a defence.

After a few dozen more slugs Malfoy finally leaves and Snape turns towards Harry.

“You may finish preparing those for today, Mr Potter,” he orders. “Get ready for our duelling lesson.”

Harry groans; he really isn’t keen on duelling. Snape smirks at him and _that_ never bodes well.

Twenty minutes later Harry is frustrated, because no matter how he tries, he cannot catch Snape unaware. Once again Harry is losing the duel, but what bothers him the most is Snape’s lips getting narrower and narrower, and his disappointment more and more clear on his face; Harry doesn’t like that look on the man at all.

As a last resort Harry tries an experimental spell. It – in theory – is able to animate any inanimate object made of organic material for a short amount of time. Harry hopes that the spell will distract Master Snape. He turns his wand towards Snape’s dragonhide boots and channels his intent. But instead of the boots coming alive for a moment, there is a noise, reminiscent of a dragon hiccoughing, and with a flash of flames, Snape’s sleeves are on fire.

Shit.

In his panic Harry casts the first spell that comes to his mind; it happens to be a quick Banishing Charm. The flames are gone in a blink of an eye. So are the sleeves of Snape’s robes, leaving his arms bare.

Suddenly the laboratory feels as cold and suffocating as the inside of a snow globe.

Harry’s eyes involuntary travel to Snape’s left forearm, to the ugly tattoo tarnishing his milk-white skin. Long, elegant fingers hide the design as fast as a snake would strike, but not soon enough. Harry lifts his gaze to Snape’s face.

Snape wears a mask of pure fury.

Harry gulps. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t want to… I just wanted to help. I’m so sorry to… I mean exposing your… I mean I know that you are not…” Harry trails off. He doesn’t know what to say in the face of Snape’s absolute silence. “I am sorry,” he manages finally, his eyes cast down in shame.

“Sorry for what, exactly? Exposing me as a monster?” Snape asks, deathly calm.

Harry wants to protest, but he is stopped by Snape. “Have no illusions, Potter. I _was_ a Death Eater,” he spits, and with a flourish of his wand restores his clothes to their original state.

Harry suddenly gets angry. “Exactly, sir. You _were_ one. Not anymore, not for a long time,” he says passionately.

Snape sneers at him. “How can you be so sure?” he asks menacingly, stepping closer to Harry, probably in an attempt to intimidate him.

Harry is able to smell Snape’s scent, slightly burned but still _himself_ , spicy, bittersweet, exotic. Harry suddenly feels very hot, and the magic under his skin swirls restlessly; he feels the familiar lines of fire running all over his body, forming tendrils of light on his skin, but he mustn’t reveal them, so he steps back hurriedly.

Snape face closes off completely.

“Well?” Snape asks.

Harry swallows hard. “My mum. She told me,” he says and lifts his head defiantly to face the man.

Snape snorts. “Indubitably,” he says with sarcasm dripping from the word. “We are done for today, Potter. Get ready to your lesson with Draco,” he orders and his voice leaves no room for objection.

“Yes, sir,” Harry agrees reluctantly.


	12. Common Ground

Draco is furious when he arrives at the laboratory. Severus was in a right snit when he ordered Draco to start Potter’s potion lesson without delay.

“What have you done to him?” he snaps at Potter.

The idiot looks like a fish out of water, and only shakes his head in denial. Over their heads, a door is closed with a resounding boom.

“Sure as hell you have!” Draco accuses.

“I haven’t done anything,” Potter declares defiantly. “Shall we proceed with the lesson?” he has the gall to ask.

Draco fumes but begins to instruct the moron in today’s potion. Potter is not so bad with potions, but he doesn’t come near Draco’s talent. Because Draco _is_ a talented brewer, there would be no way to deny even if he was a more modest man, which he isn’t. He is organized, in possession of a sixth sense regarding potions, lots of knowledge about what action causes which particular reaction, and he has a keen mind for planning and anticipating the next reaction even with an unknown potion.

Even Potter knows that; he follows Draco’s orders despite the fact that there is no love lost between them.

A loud thud comes from above; suspiciously sounds like a heavy object hitting the wall. Draco frowns and turns to Potter to call him to account.

The simpleton is looking at the ceiling with a familiar expression.

Draco recognizes that look immediately; he sees it often enough in his own mirror in his unguarded moments. It’s a look of sadness, longing and something soft and warm and vulnerable which suits Potter’s face much more than it does Draco’s.

It seems they _do_ have some common ground with Potter after all.

“Whatever idea snuggled itself into your wasteland of a brain, forget it right now, Potter!” Draco snaps.

The nitwit looks clueless. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he says foolishly.

Draco growls, “Of course you do, but let me make myself clear: I will kill you before you could stand between me and Severus,” he declares seriously.

Potter’s jaw drops to the ground. Idiotic oaf.

Draco allows himself a moment of indulgence; he imagines with sadistic glee that he disposes of Potter’s lifeless body and leaves it for the wolves in the freezing cold, letting Potter’s blood slowly paint the soft blanket of snow red.

His pleasant fantasy is interrupted way too soon.

“Are you threatening me?” Potter asks outraged.

Draco rolls his eyes. “What do you think?” he drawls.

Potter frowns at him angrily and is no doubt ready to start a ramble.

Draco gives him a frosty, calculating look. “I know that something weird is going on around you,” he says and Potter pales; ah-ha! The idiot wears his heart on his sleeve and Draco will use that fact to his advantage. “I will be watching you and I will figure out what it is,” he promises Potter.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Potter repeats, his mouth is set into a stubborn line, his eyes are sparkling with his anger, but still, his every tense inch shouts: caught!  

Draco smirks and continues his instructions on the potion, using every opportunity to criticize a clearly disturbed Potter. Draco enjoys himself immensely.

Potter has to learn his place, Draco thinks, along with a few basic facts.

Severus is his. His protector, his sanctuary, his chance to get out of his father’s house, his way to show Lucius, that old sod, that Draco won’t be his puppet, ever again. Severus is his ticket to independency, and Draco has had his eyes on him for ages, and he won’t give him up, ever. He will be Draco’s, whatever it takes.

Draco’s lips turn into a smile at the thought, and the expression makes his angelic face glow.


	13. Collateral Damage

The atmosphere between Harry and Master Snape has been awkward since their ill-fated Defensive Magic lesson. Harry has tried his best not to aggravate the man; he even conspired with Dobby to make the man’s favourite dishes and he sliced as many disgusting ingredients as he was able to. He has also tried his best to excel in his studies. He has doubled his efforts to sort out the spell he botched up, the one which is supposed to animate objects made of organic material.

Currently Harry is at the laboratory and trying out incantation after incantation to no avail, while Snape is engaged in one of his own projects in the far corner of the room. At least Malfoy is not present, he is probably reading in the library or having his beauty sleep. It’s getting late in the afternoon by now, although it’s hard to judge what time it is; one day before the Winter Solstice the outside world becomes dark early in the day.

Harry has been absorbed in the Latin dictionary for two days, trying to come up with the right combination of words, but the incantation has remained as elusive as it was two days ago.

“ _Emancipare animalis_!” he cants frustrated probably the hundredth version, his wand turned at a mole-skin bag.

Instead of the pouch coming to life, there is a backlash of light from his wand, and a peculiar feeling on his scalp.

Harry lifts his hand to check if he still has hair, but Snape, who is stalking towards him, stops him. “Don’t touch them!” he yells at Harry who immediately pulls his hand back.

“Them?” he asks tentatively.

Snape ignores him while studying Harry’s… well, hopefully his hair.

Harry’s scalp feels like it has become alive and Harry thinks he can hear… hissing from there.

“Interesting,” Snape says contemplatively. ”Most likely the result of combining the imperativus passivi form of the verb with the plural accusativus…”

Harry doesn’t have a clue what Snape is talking about; Latin grammar is absolutely undecipherable for him.

One of the hissing snakes on Harry’s head chooses that perfect moment to lean ahead, right into Harry’s face who jumps back with a very unmanly shriek.

Snape simply bursts out laughing.

“What the hell! Remove them! Remove them _now_!” Harry panics and fumbles with his wand, trying to aim it at his head.

Snape has mercy on him and gets rid of the snakes with a non-verbal _Finite Incantatem_ ; he isn’t able to verbalize the spell while laughing as hard as he does.

Harry tries to scowl at him, but fails. A laughing Snape is too magnificent a sight to remain angry in his proximity. A smile blossoms on Harry’s face to match Snape’s laughter.

Suddenly the Floo comes alive with green flames and a familiar head appears in the hearth; the head of Albus Dumbledore.

Snape immediately hides his merriment away as he turns towards the fireplace.

“Albus, what do you…?” Snape begins with a frown on his face but trails of as soon as he sees the man. “For Merlin’s sake, what happened?” he asks concerned and hurries towards the old man.

Dumbledore looks awful; he is very pale, nearly translucent, his face is sweaty and he wears a grimace of pain.

Harry follows Snape to the hearth.

“What happened?” Snape demands once again.

“A tiny… complication,” Dumbledore answers; he tries to sound nonchalant but his weak voice betrays him. “I seem to need your assistance, Severus. May I come through?” he asks.

Snape’s lips narrow into a slim line. “Of course, come immediately,” he says sternly and steps back, letting the old man come through.

With a whirl of bright purple robes Dumbledore arrives and right away stumbles out of the hearth, collapsing into Snape’s arms.

Harry steps next to them to support them and together with Snape they bring Dumbledore to the nearby armchair and sit him down.

Harry is positively alarmed by now; something definitely is not right here.

Snape’s loud gasp only worsens his foreboding. Harry follows Snape’s gaze and sees Dumbledore’s hand: it’s blackened and withered, looks dead.

Snape kneels down in front of the man, pushing Harry out of his way, and starts chanting. Harry doesn’t know what he murmurs and doesn’t even dare to move in fear of disturbing the man. The three of them stay in that position for a long time; the lines of pain are slowly easing on Dumbledore’s face while Snape’s face gets more and more stone-like.

After some time that feels like hours for Harry, Snape sits back on his heels and Dumbledore slumps into his chair.

Harry doesn’t know what to do.

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore utters faintly.

“You shouldn’t thank me! I didn’t heal it, just contained it for a while, as you quite well know it!” Snape snaps.

He is furious but Harry sees something more in the barely perceptible trembling of his upper lip, the agitated look in his eyes, the stiffness of his neck: Snape is hurt, hurt by his inability to heal his old friend.

Harry’s heart aches along with Snape.

“Don’t despair, my friend,” Dumbledore says softly. “You did all that you could and I am grateful beyond words. Believe me, the result of my actions was well worth the collateral damage,” he adds with a smile, his eyes twinkling once again.

“Worth it!?” Snape yells and he rises to his feet to tower over the old man. “Are you insane, Albus? This is a dark curse, it won’t just stay put! I contained it but it will kill you sooner or later,” Snape’s voice trails off. “You doesn’t have more than a…”  He gulps. “A year, in the best case.”

“Then I will have a year which I can spend in peace and contentment, without worrying over Dark Lords or our impending doom; that’s definitely an improvement. I couldn’t wish for a better Christmas present,” Dumbledore concludes cheerfully.  

Snape’s fury flares once again. “How can you see this as an improvement?! You will die, Albus, what you wouldn’t have to if you listened to my warning!”

“There is no more chance for Tom to come back. I hoped it would be a good enough consolation prize for letting an old friend go on to his next great adventure,” Dumbledore says softly, lovingly.

“It seems it isn’t,” Snape growls. ”I bring you a salve from my room, stay seated!” he says angrily and storms out of the laboratory.

Snape’s despair clenches Harry’s heart too. Harry knows by now that Snape doesn’t have many friends and he obviously cares deeply for Albus. His heartache must be devastating, more so in the face of his own failure in curing the old man.

Harry squeezes his lips together and comes to a decision. He steps in front of the old man and grabs his withered hand.

“I… I would like to try something, sir, if you let me,” Harry says shyly.

Dumbledore looks at him curiously but nods in agreement.

Harry focuses his magic on the injured hand held between his own palms. The tell-tale tendrils of luminescent light form once again on his skin.

“Oh,” Dumbledore breaths softly. “I see.”

Harry keeps on concentrating, but when the threads of his magic reach the other’s hand, they recoil from it; as if they were unwilling to touch it. Harry lets out a frustrated breath and tries again. Nothing happens.

He is ready to try for the third time when Dumbledore gently pulls his hand away.

“You can’t, my child,” he says. “It’s too dark.”

“No, I should…” Harry wants to convince him desperately.

“No,” Dumbledore says firmly, but with his uninjured hand he squeezes Harry’s. “You are a creature of light and life, you cannot cure this,” he utters softly.

Harry’s head snaps up at his words.

“Don’t worry!” Dumbledore hurries to reassure him. “Your secret is safe with me. I greatly appreciate your effort to heal me; even more so because I know the risk you took for me. Thank you, my boy,” the old man says sincerely.

Harry bows his head dejectedly.

They are silent for a few minutes. Snape hasn’t returned yet; Harry assumes he needs time to collect himself after learning that his friend is dying.

“Was it really worth it, sir?” Harry asks curiously, once more lifting his head to look at the old man.

“Definitely,” Dumbledore smiles at him brightly. “I believe you heard about the Dark Lord Voldemort from your mother,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Harry answers hesitantly. ”He killed my dad and godfather.”

Dumbledore’s smile fades. “That he did. Their murder wasn’t his only abominable act.”

Harry nods; he heard the stories of The Dark Lord Voldemort’s reign of terror.

“Before he killed James and Sirius and he himself fell by their wands, he had sought ways to become immortal. He created objects to contain parts of his soul, thus binding him to the mortal plain. I managed to eliminate the last of those objects. He has no means to come back, ever again,” Dumbledore finishes his explanation contentedly.

Harry is dumbfounded by what he heard, but he doesn’t have time to react, because Master Snape is back with the aforementioned salve.

Harry backs away from Dumbledore’s chair in order to let Master Snape apply the ointment on the blackened appendage.

Snape treats the hand with the utmost care, but without a single word. A scowl is attached to his face as firmly as a smile is attached to Dumbledore’s. They are an odd pair, Harry reflects.

After Dumbledore’s hand has been taken care of the old man looks much better. His hand is in the same condition, but he doesn’t seem to be in pain anymore.

Snape nods stiffly to the both of them, murmurs “You know where the Floo is,” and he is off with a swirl of his robes.

Harry aches to be able to comfort him, to be able to take away his pain, his guilt. He turns towards Dumbledore with sorrowful eyes and helps the man out of the chair and towards the Floo.

After bidding their goodbyes and Harry helping the old man into the green flames, Dumbledore turns once more to Harry.

“Thank you for caring for him, my child,” he says before twirling away.


	14. Complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was inspired by a scene from Kathleen Woodiwiss' novel Ashes to the Wind.

It’s after midnight and Snape still hasn’t returned. Harry is pacing in the library and he steals worried glances through the window frequently. Snape had left the property by the time Harry came up from the laboratory. Harry searched the house for him and he even checked the stables, this is how he knows that Snape left on horseback. That fact only increases his worry.

Finally he sees a shadow over the lawn, heading in the direction of the stables.

With a sigh of relief he hurries out of the library, down the stairs, and after grabbing his robe on his way out, he leaves the house. Outside he can hear the faint, disapproving neighing of Captain, Snape’s grey gelding.

An uncommon sight greets him when he gets to the stables. Snape – ever composed, formal and stern Master Severus Snape – sits in the middle of the horses’ drinking-trough, submerged in water to his chest. He flails with his left hand to a melody heard only by him while he is enthusiastically gulping down the amber-coloured contents of the bottle in his right hand.

Snape is three sheets to the wind, meanwhile Captain is peacefully drinking from the trough beside him.

With a sigh, Harry pats Captain’s neck.

“Good boy, you brought him home,” he compliments the horse. Captain raises his head, nudges Harry a bit, then he walks into his stall; the old horse is obviously done with his duty for the night.

Harry sighs and turns to Snape. “All right, sir. Let’s get you out of here. You should give me that bottle, you clearly had enough to drink. ” He leans forward and tries to get Snape out of the trough, but the man proves to be adamant in fending Harry off, while simultaneously protecting the bottle in his hand.

Harry will have a few choice words with Bernard; Snape must have been in his tavern, given that it’s the only pub in their vicinity. Why the heck did Bernard let Snape leave the Dark Unicorn in this state and more so, why did Bernard give him alcohol for the road?

Harry struggles to take the bottle from Snape and to pull the man out of the water, but his efforts don’t pay off; Snape possesses a surprising physical power when it comes to defying Harry and he successfully pulls Harry into the trough beside him with a big splash. Harry sputters water as he struggles to kneel up between Snape’s legs. This close he can see that Snape’s lips are blue from the cold.

“Oh, sod it all!” Harry exclaims and with a few rapid movements of his wand he banishes the water and dries their clothes. Snape is still trembling slightly and still is in the possession of the brandy bottle; the man reeks of alcohol and unhappiness. Harry casts a Warming Charm at them and finally manages to climb out of the drinking-trough and to pull Snape out too.

Snape sways on his legs so Harry circles his arms around Master Snape’s waist to support him.  Snape leans his forehead on the top of Harry’s head.

“Albus,” he slurs into Harry’s hair. “Is that you?”

“No,” Harry answers faintly.

Harry holds Snape up and stirs him out of the stables. They are slowly shuffling in the snow towards the house. It’s a damn cold night.

Suddenly Snape stops and looks at Harry with a confused expression. “Lily, you have forgiven me?” he asks bewildered, then he shakes his head. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he lowers his voice. “I killed your husband,” Snape whispers. ”I didn’t want to hurt you,” he admits brokenly.

Harry’s heart aches. He knows what part Snape played in James and Sirius’ deaths. He knows about the insecure, bullied and hurt boy who sought sanctuary at the wrong place. He knows that Snape had overheard some vital information that he shared with Voldemort which ended in the madman’s interest in the Potters. His mother told all of this to Harry.

Harry gently pulls Snape in the direction of the house. Snape lets himself be led back to the mansion.

“I know, Master Snape. I know. She… she forgave you,” Harry offers, and it’s nothing less than the truth.

“Of course she didn’t, you dolt!” Snape snaps vehemently. “She never spoke to me again.” Snape almost loses his balance and Harry must embrace him in order to prevent him from ending face down in the snow.

This out-of-control, disorderly Snape freaks Harry out.

Harry half-drags, half-walks him into the house and up to Snape’s room in silence. He lays the man down onto his bed and removes his boots and outer robes. He finally manages to pry the bottle away from Snape, but not before the man gulps down one more mouthful of the amber liquid.

After losing the battle for the bottle, the fight runs out of Snape; he lies flaccid on the bed, like a corpse. He will wake with a hell of a headache, Harry is sure about that. With a deep sigh, Harry puts his hand onto the man’s forehead; it’s becoming a habit of Harry’s. He gathers his magic to smooth Snape’s pain away; the glowing tendrils once again appear on both of their bodies, on Snape they are more pronounced than last time.

Abruptly Snape’s eyes fly open, and he grabs Harry’s wrist forcefully. The shining around them increases.

“You,” Snape growls. “I remember you, from earlier. I thought you were Draco; all this light,” he blinks rapidly; the light must be hurting his eyes. “Who are you?” he asks.

Harry struggles to pull his hand away from the shackle of Snape’s unyielding grasp.

“I am no one of significance; now, let me go!” he demands.

Something softens in the man’s face. “I have been dreaming about you,” he says tenderly. “About the warmth, the peace – like I belonged,” he adds dreamily.

Harry is panicked. “Please, let me go,” he begs.

“Oh, no, no you won’t go anywhere.  I have been searching for this in all my life, and I won’t let it go, not now, not ever again,” Snape declares unfalteringly.  

Dread constricts Harry’s throat. Somebody as closed-off as Master Snape would never admit something incredibly private like this if he was sober. Harry feels like a voyeur.

“No, I can’t…” Harry protests, but is unable to free his wrist.

“Stay,” Snape says simply and jerks Harry’s wrist, so Harry loses his balance and falls on Snape’s chest. Then the man kisses him and Harry’s world turns upside down.

The kiss is as imperfect as a drunken kiss supposed to be; contains too many teeth, too less aim and is clumsy as hell, but still. When Snape’s mouth claims Harry’s, when his tongue coaxes Harry’s into a fierce dance, Harry lets go and melts into Snape. The light surrounding them blankets them in a thick web, forming a cocoon around them, inside which they have only each other.  They are filled with a certainty that they are where they should be, where they belong. Their hands grasp the other’s clothing, his hair, his neck, seeking contact, their bodies arch into each other, seeking the other’s warmth and firmness. They gulp down the air from each other’s mouth with a hunger previously unknown.

With a sudden movement Snape turns them over so Harry is under him now. For a moment he stops kissing Harry and examines his own hand.

“Why are we shining?” he asks.

“I… I’m not sure,” Harry answers, out of breath.

“Doesn’t matter,” Snape decides and descends on Harry’s mouth with his own.

It is pure bliss, Harry thinks, and allows himself to merge into it.

He comes back to his senses only when Snape somehow finds his wand and with a quick spell banishes all their clothes; they reappear in a tangled heap next to the bed.

As they lie face to face, Snape on Harry, their luminescent patterns mirroring each other, their light more powerful than ever, Harry starts to panic again.

It shouldn’t happen like this! Snape is drunk, he doesn’t even know whom he is with. For heaven’s sake, he thought Harry was Malfoy! Harry cannot take advantage of him like that, no matter how much he wishes to; and he wishes to very much. Harry, once again, starts to struggle for his freedom.

“Please, just let me…” he pleads.

Snape cuts off his protests with a kiss while he grinds his hard cock into Harry’s. Harry moans into the kiss and involuntary raises his hip and thrusts back.

Harry has never felt anything like this before. His heart is filled to the brim with longing and want and need and joy and love.

He sobers at once.

Maybe he feels this way, he has been feeling this way for a while now, but Snape definitely does not: he is sloshed and horny. He doesn’t even know whom he is grinding against!

Harry tears his mouth from Snape’s and tries to get out from under the man. Snape doesn’t let him go; he grabs both his wrists and pins them above Harry’s head with an iron grip. Then he lowers his head and sucks one of Harry’s nipples into that sinful mouth of his.

Harry almost shrieks.

Snape’s mouth is travelling all over Harry’s chest and upper body and finally his neck while their cocks are aligned in the constricting wet hotness provided by their lower bodies arching into each other.

Harry feels the scorching heat of his orgasm in his toes, his knees, his lower abdomen. Snape claims his mouth in a fierce kiss, demanding surrender. The designs adoring both of their bodies flare up with a flash of pure, white light, and Harry climaxes with a force never known before; Snape follows him within moments.

Snape collapses onto Harry and swiftly rolls from the top of him. The lines of magic on their skins envelop them in a sphere of light. Snape pulls Harry close and Harry cuddles into his side and listens to the slowing rhythm of Snape’s breaths. The events of the day and the significant amount of alcohol consumed must be catching up with Snape, because he quickly falls asleep.

As Harry’s body and mind cools down, he starts to feel awful. He took advantage of Snape while the man was drunk. What kind of individual does such a thing? He took advantage of Snape when he knew certainly that the man didn’t know who Harry was. Harry feels dirty and disgusted. He used Snape when the man was barely in possession of all his faculties. Harry used a man for sex who doesn’t love him.

Suddenly Harry feels very cold. He scrambles out of the bed and gathers his clothes hurriedly. The night air is icy against his skin now that Snape isn’t warming him. Snape must be freezing too, Harry thinks, and pulls the blanket over the man’s form and he applies a cleaning charm on both of them as well. After making sure that Snape is comfortable for the night, Harry leaves the room with a bundle of clothes in his arms, his skin still covered in threads of light.

In his hurry to get to his room he never sees Draco Malfoy on the corridor.

If looks could kill, Harry surely would be dead by now. Draco watches him leave, naked and glowing like a sodding Christmas tree. When Potter is out of the corridor, Draco enters Snape’s room. It reeks of alcohol and sex. There is a mostly empty bottle, thrown aside, on the floor. Snape snores on the bed loudly, oblivious to the world.

He won’t remember anything if he drank all of that stuff, Draco muses and a smile blossoms on his face at the thought.

He discards of his clothing and walks to the bed. He pulls back the cover and sees that Snape, too, is sporting similar lights to Potter’s; Draco frowns and reaches out to touch the man. As soon as his fingers connect with Snape’s skin, the pattern fades into nothingness.

Draco grins, climbs into the bed and lies right next to Snape, pressing his chest into the man’s side.

It seems this year he received his Christmas present early on.


	15. Morning After

After struggling with his conscience most of the night Harry falls asleep only at near dawn. A few short hours later he wakes with the resolution that he needs to speak with Master Snape and ask for his forgiveness if it’s possible. If not… then Harry will have to deal with the consequences of his shameful actions.

He arrives at the dining room pale but determined. He finds there four persons: Master Snape, Malfoy and two women. He remembers only too late the prearranged visit of Malfoy’s mother and aunt. Three pairs of eyes are glued to him from the moment he steps into the room while the fourth, the one he most dreads and wishes to see, is stubbornly cast down.

“How delightful to see that you are up, Potter!” Malfoy greets him with uncharacteristic cheerfulness. “Mother, let me introduce Harry Potter to you!” he addresses the immaculately dressed, beautiful, albeit cold woman beside him. “Potter, this is my mother, Narcissa Malfoy.”

The woman looks disapproving of something, her lips are pressed into a thin line.  She nods to Harry condescendingly, but doesn’t offer her hand.

Harry bows to her. ”I’m glad to meet you, Madam,” he says politely.

Malfoy turns to the other woman. “Aunt Bellatrix, this is Harry Potter,” he offers with a malicious glee in his eyes which matches the woman’s dark smile. “Potter, this is my aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Bellatrix, so different from Malfoy’s mother in her colouring and dangerously sparkling eyes, does offer her hand for a kiss to Harry who, remembering well what his mother taught him, kisses the offered hand while greeting the woman politely. He cannot shrug of the feeling of unease while he holds the woman’s hand in his own.

The breakfast is unnerving for Harry.

Malfoy looks smug; he sits next to Master Snape and is constantly leaning into him, watching him, whispering to him.  Narcissa looks condemning and maybe worried as well, although Harry is not sure about that. She watches her son during the whole meal. Bellatrix looks gleeful and malicious, and she is eyeing Harry almost constantly. When her eyes wander off in the direction of Malfoy and Snape she looks simply disgusted. Harry tries (and fails) not to stare at Master Snape endlessly, but the man stubbornly holds his gaze stuck to his plate, his face closed off. Harry is devastated; this look must be the consequence of Harry’s repulsive behaviour from last night. Even the house-elf behaves out of the norm this morning; Dobby looks frightened to death. Harry doesn’t blame him.

“Oh, Potter, did you sleep well?” Malfoy inquires happily. “I am surprised that all the ruckus didn’t wake you up in the morning. Mother and Aunt arrived earlier than Severus and I expected,” he adds slyly and slides his hand over Master Snape’s.

Harry chokes upon his words.

“Ye-Yes. T-Thanks,” he stutters with great effort and a deep blush.

Narcissa’s mouth narrows even more if it’s possible. Her disapproval is palpable.

“I would have preferred a more… decorous welcome, Draco,” she chastises Malfoy.

Before Malfoy has a chance to react Snape interrupts, finally raising his gaze from the table.

“I think that this is a topic unsuitable for the breakfast table,” he utters sternly moving his gaze over all the others, avoiding only Harry.

Oh, Gods, now Harry is sure that Snape remembers Harry taking advantage of him. Harry’s blush grows with his shame.

Narcissa looks angry, Draco grins like a Cheshire cat and Bellatrix only snorts at Snape’s comment.

What the hell is going on, Harry wonders. Whatever, he must talk to Master Snape after breakfast.

Harry’s plan to speak to Master Snape immediately after breakfast gets delayed when Narcissa asks the man for a word. There is a strange tension between the two of them, but nevertheless, Snape nods his approval and they leave the dining-room together.

Harry feels awkward as both his remaining companions stare at him with a malicious glee in their eyes. Even if they don’t look very much alike, that expression shows that they are closely related. 

He tries to eat as fast as possible, and with a mumbled apology he leaves the room at the first opportunity.

Harry lurks in the corridor in front of the library and waits. When he finally sees Narcissa ascending the stairs he takes a step back into the shadows. After Narcissa enters one of the guestrooms and closes the door behind herself, Harry hurries towards the laboratory, to find Master Snape before he loses his courage. Even if Master Snape hates him for a lifetime, even if he kicks Harry out of the house post-haste, he has to apologize for last night.

When he arrives at the laboratory’s entrance the door is opened a crack and Harry can see Snape on the other side. At the moment he casts his eyes upon the man he is overwhelmed by emotions and feels his skin glow; he supresses the magic with great effort and he is just lifting his hand to knock when he hears a voice.

“Last night was incredible. I have been dreaming about this for a long time,” Malfoy’s whiny timbre comes from the other side of the door, and the young man appears next to Snape.

Snape’s cheeks are coloured with the barest hint of rose and he tilts his head in a motion that can be interpreted as a nod.

Malfoy’s smile is satisfied. Harry’s face loses all its colour.

“I hope you don’t mind the Christmas decoration. I feel so… festive today,” Malfoy goes on with a cat-like smile on his face, gesturing towards the ceiling.

“You know that bringing foreign material in is not an advisable thing to do in the laboratory; your so called decorations can contaminate the ingredients.” Harry hears something odd in Snape’s voice; it’s not as stern and confident as usual, instead it sounds slightly hesitant.

“That is why I ordered the elf to put it here, and not in the potion’s lab.” Malfoy is ready with his answer, his smile never wavering as he is inching closer and closer to Snape.  

“He was the one to place mistletoe here as well,” Malfoy says, and Harry can see a bunch of the plant above their heads. “I find it inexcusably rude to deny traditions, don’t you?” Malfoy drawls seductively.

Harry is ready to burst into the room in a fit of anger when he suddenly feels himself freeze into motionlessness as a body-binding spell paralyzes him from head to toe. He sees Malfoy leaning into Master Snape and kissing him on the mouth meanwhile reaching over their heads and plucking a berry from the bouquet of mistletoe above them. 

Even if the sight wouldn’t break his heart into two, the faint echo of an emotion not his own, a feeling of tentative hope and longing, flowing through the tendrils of his magic which entwine his body, coming from his beloved, surely does the job. He sees Snape returning the kiss and closes his eyes against the incredible pain it causes in his chest.

He feels a stab of a wand in his neck, and hears a whisper in his ear.

“Disgusting, aren’t they? Hopefully my nephew regains his senses soon, and gets rid of the repulsive bat,” Bellatrix murmurs disdainfully in his ear. Harry can’t move or say a word in the confines of the woman’s spell.

“Come now, my beautiful, we have more pressing matters to attend to,” she whispers into Harry’s ear, her nose touching his skin. Harry shivers. Stealthily she levitates Harry towards one of the guest rooms on the first floor.

When the room’s door closes behind them, she spins Harry around and pushes him back against the door.

She leans towards Harry and grabs his chin. Harry meets her gaze defiantly, even if he still can’t move. “I have had my suspicions ever since Draco mentioned in his letter your little encounter in the storm and your odd behaviour since then, but you,” she almost purrs into Harry’s ear, standing uncomfortably close to him, “foolish little boy, you yourself handed me the final proof. Peeking into Snape’s lair, glowing like that in the middle of the corridor, what were you thinking? Which one of them you are pining after, I wonder. I hope it’s Draco, Snape is just too… eeek,” she grimaces.

 She has the gall to say that, Harry thinks on the edge of horror-induced hysteria.

“I got you, you filthy, freakish little Fae!” she breathes against Harry’s cheek.

Harry’s eyes widen into saucers in his panic. No matter how he struggles, he cannot escape the confines. He can’t do a thing as Bellatrix removes his wand from his sleeve. He tries to reach out with his inner magic, but the binding somehow repels it.

“You stupid little creature, you are defenceless against Dark magic!” She giggles madly.

She steps closer and presses her breasts against Harry; he can feel the warmth of her body and feels nauseated.

“I never really liked fairy tales. Too sappy for my liking,” Bellatrix continues contemplatively. “But some details I remember. How was it said? You surely know the silly children’s song…. Oh, yes:

_Fae’s love keeps young,_

_Fae’s heart lights dark,_

_Fae’s love given for keeps,_

_Brings you eternal beauty.”_

Harry feels the woman’s breath on his lips, her caress on his cheek. He desperately wants to get away, but he can’t, he can’t.

“You, my darling little fairy-boy, will give me all of that.” Her hand is sliding down on Harry’s torso. “That, and more,” she says and her lips descend on Harry’s mouth while her hand grabs Harry’s crotch.

Suddenly, both of them are covered in angry green light, seemingly coming under Harry’s skin. Bellatrix leans back and cackles madly; her face is glowing, her eyes are bright with ethereal light, and her hair, her thick, curly hair is shining and growing longer and longer.

“Fae’s love keeps young,” she cants in a sing-song voice and rubs herself against Harry’s uninterested body.

Harry wants to vomit.

Her locks reach under her waist by now and are intertwining then coming apart constantly, like a bundle of snakes.

She presses her thigh between Harry’s legs. “Eternal beauty,” she moans ecstatically.

Harry fights desperately for his freedom, his magic getting more and more agitated.

Abruptly her knee-long curls seem to come alive and wrap around her neck, strangling her. She stumbles back from Harry as she tries to pry the snake-like locks of her hair away from her neck. But the black curls don’t let her go, twining more and more tightly around her. Her eyes bulge in her face and she falls to her knees.

Harry watches her struggle horrified.

Bellatrix’s face turns blue and her fingers fall from her neck. For a few moments nothing moves, then with a thud, she drops to the side.

Suddenly the binding spell releases Harry. Although he isn’t confined anymore, he is unable to move.

A minute goes by. On shaking legs Harry starts towards the body on the floor. He can’t take more than two steps, because the door abruptly opens and Draco Malfoy steps in.

He runs his cold grey eyes over the scene and finally stops his gaze on Harry.

“Did you kill her?” he asks coldly.

Harry is trembling in his whole body.

“I… I… I think so,” he stutters, still shocked.

Malfoy nods, and smiles.

“You, as a murderer, I would never have thought. What will Severus think?!” he says mockingly.

The blood freezes in Harry’s veins.

“I must thank you, Potter,” Malfoy says with frightening nonchalance. ”I thought it would be much harder to get rid of you, but you did all the dirty work for me,” he smirks.

Harry shakes his head desperately.

Malfoy beams more radiantly in the face of Harry’s mute denial. “Severus sought me out this morning,” the blonde informs Harry indifferently. “He told me that he wanted to spend his life with me after the night of passion we had shared last night. I was a bit surprised, but never look a gift Abraxan in the mouth, right?” he asks with a cruel gleam to his eyes. ”Anyway, I agreed.”

“But that’s a lie!” Harry shouts indignantly. “You… you never spent the night with him.” _I did_ , remains unsaid.

Malfoy snorts.

“And what will you use that fact for?” he asks arrogantly. “To sully his reputation, forever stigmatizing him as a lover of a murderer? Took him long enough to restore his standing in the eye of the society, you want to ruin that for him? I can make him happy, we are from the same breed, while you are not even human!” he spits disgustedly. “What will people say when they learn that you are a filthy, murderous creature, a bloody Fae!” Malfoy’s beautiful face is deformed by his repulsion. “I have had my suspicions, but dear Aunt Bella confirmed them, rest her soul in peace,” he says with an insincere expression. “They will surely be out for your blood, and by association for Severus’ blood too. And don’t assume that people won’t find out. If you dare stand in my way I won’t hesitate to tell everybody,” he threatens Harry with an expression of pure hatred.

“You can’t,” Harry whispers faintly. His whole body staggers under the weight of Malfoy’s words, and the unpleasant truth of them. Harry would bring nothing but trouble on Master Snape’s head, no matter how much he loves him.

“Draco?” they hear a muffled voice from the corridor; Snape is looking for Draco.

Along with his voice, an empathic echo of the man’s feelings also reaches Harry: a faint whisper of hope and cautious affection. And _that_ decides it like nothing else could. Harry bows his head.

Snape has a future with Draco that Harry can’t give him. He has nothing to offer but a life of scorn and disdain and persecution. Snape deserves better than that.

“I arranged a Portkey for you.” Malfoy is all business now. “It will drop you at that disgusting rat-hole, the Dark Unicorn.  Don’t bother with your things, I will send them after you.” It seems he has thought about everything. He pulls out a dragon figurine on a chain from his pocket. “You can keep the pendant, as a reminder of me and my promises,” he says darkly.

Harry holds his hand out.

Malfoy drops the pendant in his palm. “Good riddance,” he utters the password with a wide smile and Harry is gone with a bluish-white flash.

Malfoy steps to Bellatrix and kicks her foot. “You lazy tramp, I saw you breathe!”

She moans. He smiles.

“Sodding bitch. I hope you will have a hell of a headache,” he mumbles.

“Draco?” Severus’ voice filters through the door.

“I’m coming!” he yells back and leaves the room with a satisfied smile.


	16. Farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here starts the second of the two main parts of this tale. The first part was mostly from Harry's point of view, and the second is mainly, but not exclusively, from Severus'.

_**Two years later** _

 

Albus’ funeral is as pompous as Severus suspected it would be. If Albus were here, he would find it hilarious, he thinks. This endless parade of never-ending heartfelt speeches is way too predictable and unimaginative to represent Albus. He always loved to defy expectations; even when Severus predicted only a year of survival for him Albus managed almost two, and not only that but he lived those two years in disturbing merriment, even writing a bestseller on the relations and common misconceptions between humans and magical creatures, before embracing the next great adventure with immense enthusiasm.

Severus shakes his head to chase away the smile that tries to sneak up on his formidable lips. Albus always provoked the most inappropriate reactions! He was especially devoted in his task to make Severus smile; he would be glad to see that even after his death, he once again succeeded. The bittersweet thought makes Severus’ heart ache.

And now, Albus has been laid to rest on the grounds of his magnificent school, his home, Hogwarts, his enormous white tomb facing the presently frozen black lake. Even if he knows that Albus was more than ready to move on from this current plane of existence, Severus’ heart still clenches with pain when the magical fire engulfs Albus’ body and his impressive tombstone manifests on the lawn. It’s a relief when the distasteful ordeal is finally over and the crowd starts to thin out at last. Many of the attendants leave with teary, red-rimmed eyes; Severus thinks Albus wouldn’t like that.

It’s time for Severus to find Draco, who is somewhere in the front of the crowd, representing the House of Malfoy while Severus has chosen to stay in the background to Draco’s unhidden dissatisfaction.

As Severus waits for the masses to leave, he spots a man in the mourning crowd. He is lithe and moves with a graceful ease, has dark hair and a handsome face. He must be Severus’ age, maybe a little older, perhaps in his late forties; but what stands out most is that he wears a tender smile on his face as if he is remembering something precious. Probably that is the case, Albus left behind a bunch of precious moments in Severus’ memory as well: some bittersweet, some annoying and some heart-wrenching, but Severus cherishes them nonetheless. Of Albus only the memories and the legend remains. And a nosy portrait, no doubt! With a characteristic not-quite-there smile Severus reminds himself to visit Minerva in her office sometime. But not immediately. Not yet. Severus is not quite ready yet.

Something in the unknown man draws Severus to him, he can’t tear his eyes away from him. The man is decidedly attractive; Severus might be married, but he is definitely not blind. The stranger must sense Severus’ scrutiny, because he looks up suddenly, right at Severus. They stand at least sixty feet apart, but the man’s gaze focuses on Severus without hesitation. Severus cannot make out the exact colour of his eyes, but sees them darken with some emotion as the smile leaves the man’s face with disturbing speed. He achieves a fearful, panicked even look, clearly in recognition. Severus is confident that he has never met the man before; he is sure as hell that he wouldn’t have forgotten that face. They both freeze in each other’s gaze for a moment. Then, the most peculiar thing happens: the man pales alarmingly, becomes ghostly white, ethereal almost. He seems to be glowing in the middle of the dark-clothed mourning crowd. No, he _is_ glowing, an intricate and delicate pattern of light coming to life on his skin and most astonishingly on Severus’ skin as well! Severus releases the man’s gaze to cast a bewildered look at his hands, now covered in playfully intertwining vines of faint light. The luminescent tendrils are incredibly beautiful and also familiar from what Severus thought up to this moment were his dreams.

The man takes advantage of Severus’ confusion and he turns on his heel and flees.

Severus follows him instinctively. The man is fast but Severus’ determination makes him faster. He manoeuvres gracefully among the throng of people, giving out swift apologies when the force of his pursuit threatens to drift anybody away who stands in his way.

His brain is working even quicker than his legs while he is keeping his eyes on the retreating form unwaveringly.

The glowing pattern which he believed to be a dream or the product of his own brain to represent Draco in his subconscious mind is indeed real. And if the pattern itself is real then maybe the all-consuming feeling of belonging is real as well, and maybe it has not been caused by Severus’ damaged emotional state that he has never felt that belonging with Draco, a fact that has put a strain on their relationship very quickly.

Severus desperately needs to know what those patterns are or what do they mean.

He is steadily getting closer to his quarry; the man throws a panicked look over his shoulder and his eyes widen in fear. The look the man casts back sets his flight back a tad, and gives Severus an extra boost. From this distance he can make out the colour of the man’s eyes. They are green.

Severus is nearly there when an obstacle blocks his way. He almost growls and is ready to bypass the interfering human, when a hand lands on his forearm and all the lights go out abruptly, all the luminous tendrils die an imminent death. Severus comes to a sudden halt.

“Severus, why are you trotting up and down like a lunatic?” a petulant voice inquires. Severus needs a moment to identify the source of the voice. It’s Draco.

Draco is the one standing in his way. Severus tries to move around him once again but Draco blocks him anew, tightening his already bruising grip on Severus’ arm.

“What the hell is going on?” Draco hisses his demand, but Severus cannot concentrate on him now. He has eyes only for the retreating figure who gets farther and farther away, until he disappears from his view.

Sod it all, he has just lost the only man who may know something about the mysterious motifs! The same designs that have been haunting his dreams for two years now. After all the man wore the same patterns, he must know something about them! What the hell are they and how is it possible that they appeared out of the blue on Severus and just as abruptly they disappeared?

Or was it really that abrupt? Severus realizes that the light went out at the exact moment when Draco touched him.

Severus wishes that Albus was present to provide answers, even cryptic ones.

Draco pulls his attention back when he shakes Severus’ captured arm impatiently. “Do you even listen to me?” he asks furiously. Never say that a Malfoy tolerates being ignored.

“I was merely observing a curious phenomenon,” Severus answers evasively.

Draco snorts. “Like hell you were! If you are quite finished,” he adds, “you may start to behave like a respectable, high standing member of society who attends a social event of this calibre.”  With one last, warning squeeze he releases Severus’ arm and pulls on his most snobbish face, his eyes still icy and furious.

“ _Social event of this calibre?_ ” Severus spits with obvious disgust. “This farce of a third degree buffoonery is my best friend’s funeral!” Severus seethes.

“One more reason to reserve at least some of your dignity,” Draco replies, appalled.

Severus draws a deep breath, takes a step back and tries to compose himself.

To restart his chase of the illustrious stranger is clearly pointless now. The man managed to flee without giving any answers to Severus’ questions.

But still, there are some facts Severus now knows for sure. For once, the intricate web of magical light wasn’t a deluded fantasy or his mind’s interpretation of Draco when he was knocked out once by an accident, once by alcohol. The elaborate pattern is real, and given its reaction to Draco’s touch and the fact that it never appeared previously in Draco’s presence, it more than likely has nothing to do with the blonde.

It also seems to be plausible now that if the designs really materialised when Severus was injured and when he was utterly drunk, then something or someone must have caused them. Something or someone what or who was definitely _not_ Draco.

“I was wondering…” Severus starts, “do you remember the night I got injured in the snow storm?” That point in time is the only beginning Severus has; that was the first time something peculiar happened regarding the patterns.

“Yeah, but why is it important now?” Draco says impatiently.

“Am I correct in assuming that you were not the only one with me when I got injured in the snow storm?” Severus asks.

“Of course not! There was a sodding armada of nitwits and drunken dumbasses! It happened in a goddamned tavern!” Draco snaps. He seems to be causelessly agitated.

“And later, when I rode out on Captain, after Albus…” He can’t finish that sentence, he still can’t say the words about the evening when Albus’ fate had been sealed. “When I got back inebriated, before the winter solstice two years ago, there was somebody, or happened something…” Severus trails off and waits.

Draco narrows his eyes. “And exactly what that mysterious _something or somebody_ was, hmm?” Draco’s voice is mocking but his stance is a bit too defensive. Severus knows him well; Draco is privy to some information which he keeps close to his vest.

“You know something about this. About those patterns,” Severus offers.

Draco’s face suddenly closes off completely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says coldly, his posture rigid. “If you’re quite done with your delusions and your baseless accusations, I will be waiting for you at the Apparation point.” He storms off in a huff, leaving Severus behind with his contemplations.

Somebody was there when he had been injured and later when he drank himself into a stupor. It wasn’t a dream or a delusion about the light cocooning him and somebody else, first healing him, and then making love with him.

But the only person who was present both times was Draco. Suddenly a thought occurs to him. Didn’t Draco say that Potter had been there in the tavern too? And the incident with Albus also happened during the period when Potter lived with them. But Severus cannot ask the boy if he knows something because he left the house abruptly, didn’t even say good-bye to Severus. A family emergency, he told Draco.

Severus frowns. Or at least Draco told Severus that Potter had told him that. Severus isn’t completely sure; Draco is nothing if not an opportunist.

Severus tries to remember: Potter left the house before Christmas, on the same chaotic morning when the two thirds of the Black sisters descended on his house, Narcissa nagging him constantly about his intentions towards her precious son. Severus shivers at the memory.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he needs answers. And he will get them, whatever it takes.


	17. Sisterhood

Petunia is surprised that it took Severus Snape two whole years to arrive on her threshold. Also, it angers her on Harry’s behalf that Snape didn’t care enough to come sooner. The man is dressed immaculately in an elegant black wool coat, but he still looks out of place on Privet Drive.

“Petunia,” he greets her stiffly.

“Severus. It’s been a long time since I last saw you,” Petunia adds, equally aloof. She doesn’t bother to invite him in. If any of the neighbours asks later she’s going to tell them he was an insurance agent. “What are you doing here?”

“Actually, I’m looking for your nephew.”

“Oh? For what reason if I may ask?” she asks frowning.

“I… have a few questions to him,” Snape says evasively.  

“About what?” she asks suspiciously.

“It’s… about a curious phenomenon I’m researching.”

“What kind of _phenomenon_?” she wants to know.

“I don’t want to bore you with the specifics. It concerns our… talent.”

Petunia barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. After 30 years Severus Snape still underestimates her. Typical.

“I’m not allergic to the word magic, you know. After all my only sister was a witch,” Petunia deadpans. She enjoys immensely Snape’s surprised expression. “And if it concerns my nephew, then it’s surely not boring to me.”

Snape quickly gathers himself. “The subject of my research is magical in nature. It concerns a peculiar skin condition,” he says somewhat reluctantly.

“Skin condition? Really? And you think Harry may be of assistance?”

“I’m not sure, but I hope so,” Snape answers awkwardly.

Petunia gives him a measuring look, and finds him lacking.

“Sadly, I cannot help you. I don’t know where Harry is,” she says unwaveringly.

“He hasn’t even left contact information with you?” Snape asks disbelievingly.

“After his mother’s death he wanted to travel. I guess he‘s been caught up in some adventure or another. You know how young people are nowadays,” she adds nonchalantly.

“Yes,” Snape pauses, playing with his ring absentmindedly. “Yes, I guess I know.”

They both stand in silence for a few moments. Snape is clearly frustrated with Petunia’s non-cooperation.

“When did you last see him?” Snape asks finally.

“Hmm, I can’t recall the exact date. It was probably two years ago. After he left your house,” Petunia says casually, but the death glare she’s giving Snape has nothing casual about it.

Snape frowns. “He left without saying goodbye. What impolite brat does something like that?” he asks angrily. “He left his training without a by-your-leave! He wasn’t even a complete waste of time; I must admit he got some talent. But one day he just told my senior apprentice about a family emergency, and I haven’t seen him since then.”  He finishes his rant with an annoyed huff.

“Family emergency? Curious. I can’t recall one, although sadly I’m Harry’s only remaining family. Maybe your senior apprentice misunderstood. Actually, I was surprised Harry left his apprenticeship; he seemed very content.”

“I’m not sure what happened, but I intend to find out,” Snape says determinately.

“It’s a pity I couldn’t help you, such an old friend of my late sister.” Petunia applies just the right amount of venom; she knows very well about the fall out between Lily and Snape, she knows how they hadn’t met for twenty years, even if they corresponded with each other.

There is a moment’s silence, then Snape’s mask of stone wavers. “Why didn’t she tell me she was sick?” His voice is laced with pain.

Petunia’s expression also softens a tiny bit.

“I think she didn’t want any witnesses to her suffering. She never recovered after James’ death. Once she gave her heart it was fully given; but one cannot live long without a heart. Regardless, she happily gave all of herself,” she concludes. Snape only nods. “And Harry is the same,” she adds absentmindedly.

“Yes, I have discovered a few similarities between them,” Snape admits.

Petunia hardens her demeanour once again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, thank you for your assistance.” Snape’s face is once again unreadable. ”If you talk to Potter, let him know I’m looking for him, please.”

“I will,” Petunia agrees.

Snape bows his head. “Good bye.”

“Good bye,” Petunia says and closes the door.

She watches from behind the curtain of her spotless kitchen as the imposing figure of a man clad in elegant black clothes leaves. The crowd of neighbourhood children previously absorbed in a severe snow fight scatters at the man’s sight. The retreating figure is nothing like the boy this man once was, but still, he reminds Petunia of that child. He is just as angry, determined and disappointed now as he once was. She sighs and follows him with her eyes as long as she can, before the man disappears at the end of the street.

Petunia doesn’t bear a grudge against this man anymore, but she couldn’t help him. Not after seeing Harry like that, not after witnessing the state in which his nephew left this man’s house. Harry didn’t say a word about what had happened to him in that house two years ago, but his haunted look, his feverish eyes, his utter despair told his tale in his stead.

Somebody must have discovered something about his heritage and tried to take advantage of him, Petunia is sure. She can only imagine how the Wizarding world treats people like Harry and Lily, but she has first-hand knowledge of the hatred and suspicion they must face in Petunia’s world. Given Lily’s reluctance to let anyone know of her true self, it must be quite similar with wizarding folks as well.

Petunia remembers all too well how their own grandmother treated Lily.

At first, being the jealous little girl she was, Petunia enjoyed the attention she received from their grandma and the lack of the usual adoring towards Lily that the younger girl most of the time got.

“My precious little flower,” the old woman called Petunia, and only her. She never called Lily anything like that, just muttered something suspiciously like a prayer under her breath whenever Lily was in her sight. Petunia once heard when their grandma called Lily a changeling. When later she called her sister by the same name, Lily started to cry. Petunia didn’t understand at the time. “Be careful with her!” their grandma cautioned Petunia repeatedly. When over the holidays both girls slept at their grandmother’s place, Petunia found a wooden cross on the top of her cover in the morning.

When asked about it, their grandma only said, “To protect you from malicious spirits.” Petunia thought it to be a silly superstition.

After they had met Severus Snape on that fateful day on the playground, Petunia’s relationship with her sister started to go downhill steadily. Lily’s friendship with the boy and her hurtful betrayal when she showed the Snape boy the letter Petunia had received from Albus Dumbledore only worsened matters. Petunia truly thought that they would part ways in anger and would never salvage their relationship when on the day before Lily was supposed to depart to her new school, something happened.

Upon returning home Petunia found her sister in the garden, crouched behind the rose bushes, sobbing her eyes out. Only her fiery red hair peeping out from behind the bush and the distressed sounds she made gave her location away.

For once Petunia saw not the almighty first-witch-in-the-family who was better than she in everything, but her little sister who was hurt.

She kneeled next to the sobbing Lily and put her arm around Lily’s shoulder.

“What happened, Lils?” she whispered.

“Grandma… She said… she said I should have been thro… throttled when I was born,” she hiccoughed. “She said I should have been burnt on a pyre, then my kind might come for me.”

Petunia’s lips tightened. No one shall insult her sibling like that. Not even their grandmother. Petunia would have a few choice words with the woman.

“Come on Lils, she is just a superstitious old woman,” she tried to soothe Lily’s despair. “Let’s go inside, Mum made your favourites today,” she encouraged her sister.

Lily looked up at her with teary eyes. “Aren’t you mad at me?” she asked at a small voice.

Petunia slowly shook her head. “No, I’m not. Not anymore.” And it was true.

That day Petunia promised herself to protect her sister no matter what.

The next day when Petunia hugged her sister good-bye she saw the Snape boy from the periphery of her vision. Surprisingly she didn’t see the boy she hated fiercely for taking her sister away. He saw an angry, disappointed being who eyed their sisterly embrace longingly.

Even if Severus Snape is a man now, Petunia sees the same boy today.

And even if she doesn’t have her sister to protect anymore, she still has Harry, and she is determined to shelter him, even from his mother’s best friend if necessary. That is why she could not help Snape today, why she lied about not knowing where Harry is. She won’t let anybody hurt her Lily’s only legacy ever again.


	18. Echo

By now it’s a familiar ache. It clings to Harry’s soul like the fog of the December morning outside, heavy and impossible to brush off. His chest is filled with an otherworldly sadness; not solely his own but still a part of him. It’s a cruel echo of a connection that would never be.  The pain of a bond never cherished, mixed with the echoing sadness and loneliness of his beloved who he let go to make happy. It’s a carved out hollow in his soul, a constant void in his heart.

Some days it’s more bearable than others. It will be one of the worse days; Harry feels this for sure.

Aunt Petunia’s last letter is crumpled in his fist, her words whirling around in his brain. Master Snape visited his aunt and was looking for him. Why? What did he want? Aunt Petunia says he talked about some skin condition. He must have seen the pattern at the funeral; why else would he have pursued him otherwise? Is it possible that he recognized him at the funeral? It’s not likely, after all, most mornings even Harry doesn’t recognize the face in his bathroom mirror.

With a sigh he flattens out the letter and steps into his small lavatory. His reflection is weary and faded. Harry lifts his slightly shaking hand and smooths over the ever deepening set of crow’s feet around his eyes. This last encounter with Master Snape definitely did a number on him. He looks at least five years older than he did a week ago at the funeral. He drops his hand and with a few, rapidly murmured words puts back his usual disguise. The difference between his true appearance and his camouflage gets less and less pronounced every day.

He decided shortly after leaving Petunia’s house that he didn’t want to live the always-on-the-move kind of lifestyle they had maintained with his mother. He would turn into an old man sooner rather than later, why couldn’t he disguise himself as one? This way nobody would recognize him, and his ever changing appearance and rapidly accelerating age wouldn’t be an issue.

He turns his back on the old man in the mirror and heads out to the greenhouse.

He finds some solace working with the plants, like he always does, but his hands tremble slightly and his magic is more wobbly than usually. If he lets his concentration slip, even for a moment, he sees Master Snape at the funeral, his elegant posture, his almost invisible smile, the sadness in his eyes, and Harry’s whole body, his very soul burns with his ache for the man. There hasn’t been a single day in the last two years when it wasn’t like this.

After Portkeying out of Prince Chateau he was a mess, raw with pain and loss and longing. And guilt, so much devastating guilt! He killed somebody, he took a life, somebody else’s life, he just took it away ruthlessly. He was a murderer, and for that there would never be forgiveness. The tentative emotions slipping through from his beloved only worsened matters, but also gave him some determination. There was no future for Harry, and honestly, he didn’t deserve one after what he had done, but Master Snape still could be happy, and that was the important thing.

Later he couldn’t remember the details of that first day and night, spent in a room in the Dark Unicorn, absorbed in his grief, stupefied by remorse. Next morning he emerged from his haunted pit of darkness with the determination that he would surrender himself to the law enforcements.

The only thing stopping him was the morning edition of the Daily Prophet with an engagement announcement on the front cover, accompanied by a picture. The Malfoy family, it seemed, was influential enough to be worthy of the front page.

Draco was glowing with happiness and satisfaction as he clung to a much more subdued Master Snape’s arm. They were accompanied by the proud Malfoy parents, polite smiles plastered on their faces, and a somewhat bewildered looking Aunt Bellatrix. Very much alive.

Indescribable relief flooded Harry and his knees went weak. Gods, he didn’t kill her, he didn’t. Whatever happened she was alive. Alive! He was no murderer; he wouldn’t ruin Master Snape’s life with his unforgivable sin if they were to...

Warmth, light and hesitant, filled his soul. Affection, hope, contentment. It should have been Harry’s. It should have been, but it wasn’t. It came from his beloved.

Draco was right. The blonde really _could_ make Master Snape happy. He already did. Harry dropped the newspaper and with it his last hope.

He hid at his Aunt Petunia’s for a short while, but he never breathed a single word to her about what happened at Master Snape’s house.  It was there when he first noticed the wrinkles appearing overnight, the grey hairs sprouting from nowhere. His magic and life-force were leaking out of him. He couldn’t condemn Petunia to witness powerlessly a family member’s falling to the curse of Faes’ once again. He needed to leave.

His house in Ottery St. Catchpole is modest, his life peaceful. He tends to his garden with gentle care, even if his magic is getting fainter every day. His soul aches. He only hopes that Master Snape is happy.  It always breaks Harry’s heart when he feels the other man’s pain, his sadness.

Whenever an echo of Master Snape’s emotions come through to Harry, he wonders what the man is doing. He imagines Master Snape in his lab when he feels the man’s satisfaction, or in his library, with a crime story, when his soul is filled with the man’s contentment. Master Snape’s happiness makes Harry happy too, but the thought that he isn’t the one responsible for his beloved’s happiness is painful. It’s especially hard for Harry to live through Master Snape’s too often reoccurring loneliness. The only times Harry shies away from the echo in his soul are when he feels Master Snape’s rapture. He doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to imagine.

Harry’s heart broke alongside Master Snape’s when Albus died. This was the main reason he decided to take the risk and attend the funeral. He wanted to be there, for Master Snape. He wanted to share the burden of the passing of a friend, even if it was from afar.

Today his chest is still numb with the torturous ache of seeing Master Snape a week ago and being unable to touch him.

He shakes his head and focuses on the battered, scrubby little tree in front of him. He has work to do; this tree is in dire need of healing and also the young Mrs Weasley is picking up her herbs later this morning.

He touches the little tree’s trunk; the tendrils of magic, coming alive on his skin, are coloured a faint, unhealthy grey.


	19. Old Friends

Minerva leaves Severus alone in the Headmaster’s – or more precisely now, the Headmistress’ – office with a tender pat on his back. Minerva’s wordless encouragement is not quite enough for Severus to brace himself for facing his old friend, but it helps a little, even if Severus would never admit it aloud.

Albus’ portrait occupies the most prominent place on the office’s wall, right behind the Head’s desk. The figure in the ornate frame is so much like the real Albus was that its sight makes Severus’ heart twist. He takes a few tentative steps closer, until he stands right in front of the slumbering figure. Albus wears his favourite lilac coloured robes in his portrait. The garment has always been hideous, but Albus loved it. It’s no surprise that he wanted to be immortalized on canvas in that particular robe. _Typical Albus_ , Severus thinks, and the thought makes his lips turn into a minuscule smile.

But of course the infuriating old man chooses that moment to open his eyes.

“Ah, Severus, my dear boy,” the portrait figure greets him enthusiastically, all twinkles and sparks. Severus resists the urge to flinch from Albus’ way of address.

“Albus,” he replies. “I think you are quite aware that I’m not a boy anymore,” he offers his customary answer.

“How are you, Severus?” Albus ignores his protests. In that regard portrait and man are ( _were_ , Severus must remind himself) quite similar.

“I’m… adequate.” _Missing you greatly_ is what Severus really means.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Albus says with a fond smile.  “And how is your young spouse?”

“Draco is also well, thank you,” Severus supplies a tad stiffly. He doesn’t know why, but Draco has always been an awkward topic in their conversations with Albus. The old man never was disapproving, per se, but when Draco was mentioned Albus always got a pensive look in his eyes. Severus got the impression that the old man was disappointed; whether in Severus or in his choices never was exactly clear.

“Oh, to be young and in love once again!” the portrait exclaims wistfully.

Severus cringes and says nothing.

After a long, searching look, Albus finally asks. “How can I help you, Severus?”

“I have some inquiries. Do you remember my junior apprentice, Mr Potter?”

“Oh yes, young Harry. I most definitely remember him. A fine young man, he is.” For some reason Albus seems saddened by the mention of Potter. “He suffered many losses throughout his short life.”

Severus frowns. “Didn’t we all?”

“I think it matured him beyond his years.” Albus adds with a fond but melancholy expression.

“I wasn’t aware you know him well,” Severus says with a hint of surprise. As far as he knows Albus and the boy met only twice.

“Well, Harry is such a kind soul. He is the type of man who leaves an impression, don’t you think, Severus?”

Severus ignores the bait. “Do you know where he is?”

Albus looks thoughtful for a moment. “No, I’m sorry, but I cannot say I know where Harry Potter is.”

“I see. Nobody seems to know about his whereabouts. It’s like the Earth has swallowed him,” Severus says disappointed.

“Why are you seeking him?” the portrait asks curiously.

“I’m researching a fascinating… phenomenon, and Mr Potter might have some information on the matter.”

“Really? A phenomenon you say? What exactly is it?” Albus asks enthusiastically.

“Recently I have experienced some interesting forms of magic I haven’t witnessed previously. They manifested in some very intriguing magical patterns on the skin, and also triggered some unexpected psychic responses.” _Warmth. Belonging._

“Well, this does sound interesting. Where did you come upon this occurrence?”

Severus can’t help but notice that thus far Albus has had only questions and supplied no answers of his own. Not that this hasn’t been their usual dynamics.

Resigned, Severus tells the tale. “My first encounter with this spectacle happened when I was incapacitated by an accident. I didn’t think it had great significance. Actually, I believed it to be the product of my imagination. The second encounter also happened in a time of… compromised mental state. That occasion was dismissed by me as well. But then it happened again, almost two years later. And this time I wasn’t impaired in any way, and it couldn’t be put aside as some feverish hallucination.”

Albus nods with a thoughtful expression. “I see. What was exactly that you experienced?”

“I attended a crowded event and I caught sight of a man. He seemed panicked and attempted to flee from me for some reason. His skin not covered by his attire was adorned by glowing tendrils of magic. So, for some unknown reason, was mine. The man managed to disappear before I had the chance to question him.” The mere memory of his failure to catch up to the man makes Severus irritated once again.

“Hmm, most curious.” Albus muses. “What about the patterns on your own skin?”

“They disappeared without a trace when I came into contact with somebody else.”

“I see,” Albus says while he is stroking his beard as if in deep thought. “Why do you think young Harry has answers regarding this matter?”

“The first two times he was in my proximity when I experienced this… thing.”

“I see,” Albus repeats, face impassive.

There is something off about his reaction, Severus observes. Then it clicks in Severus’ head; Albus doesn’t seem surprised.

“Just to satiate an old man’s morbid curiosity, was this aforementioned event my funeral?” Albus changes the topic with a mischievous smile.

Severus now knows that something is definitely going on here. Albus is clearly deflecting his question. The manipulative old coot is just as sneaky now as he was while alive. Severus shouldn’t be surprised.

“Yes, it was.”  Severus goes along with the topic change grudgingly.

“Was it worth attending?” Albus asks with weird fascination.

“I think it was a bit too grandiose for your tastes,” Severus answers truthfully.

Albus sighs. “I thought it would be,” he admits with overplayed exasperation. “But back to your quest. I understand what you experienced, but how did it make you feel?”

The questions throws Severus a bit off-balance. He needs a few moments to compose his answer. “Angry. Bewildered. Frustrated, especially by the lack of understanding.”

“Yes, I imagine it would make you feel like this, more so after this mysterious individual slipped through your fingers,” Albus says far too amused for Severus’ taste. “But how did you feel throughout this fascinating… occurrence?” Albus persists.

 _Whole_.

Severus shrugs off the question. “I can’t recall exactly. I was preoccupied with my pursue of this man.”

Albus’ smile is way too knowing and absolutely irritating. “I’m sure you were, my boy.”

“Do you have any idea about what happened?” Severus asks sharply.

Albus hesitates for the briefest moment. “It sounds like some magic of Faeish origin. It’s a private matter, covered up in myths and misconceptions.”

Severus doesn’t clench his teeth. It takes considerate effort. “But of course it is,” he says sourly.

“I discussed the matter tangentially in my book, but I don’t think myself to be any expert on the matter.” There is slight hesitation once again. “But I have an… old friend, we could say, who knows a lot about the matter. I think he will be able to help you,” Albus offers at last.

“Who’s this old friend?” Severus inquires curiously.

“His name is Emmett Darnell. He owns a most excellent greenhouse in Ottery St. Catchpole. The potion expert in you will surely appreciate his gardens there. I think you should pose your questions to him. He has much deeper insight than I have.”

“Hmm, I shall seek him out then,” Severus decides.

“Excellent, my boy. Excellent.” There is a spark in the portrait’s eyes that makes him look like he has just achieved a victory. That only makes Severus even more suspicious. “Next time you should bring your bond mate as well,” Albus adds out of the blue.

“We’re not bonded just married. And please don’t take it offensively, but I doubt that you have ever been in such a relationship with Draco that would warrant a visit from him.” Severus is being diplomatic; he knows Draco could never stand the headmaster.

“Well, you must be right, Severus, I leave it to your judgment,” Albus acquiesces.

There is a pause in their conversation when Severus considers all the information he has gathered. Albus was his usual cryptic self, mostly insinuating instead of giving straight answers. Nothing new there. Honestly, he didn’t learn much, except the name of this Darnell he might very well seek out. Nothing to lose, after all.

“Are you happy, my boy?” Albus interrupts his contemplations.

“I find fulfilment in my work, my research. I’m my own boss. I’m content.”

“Yes, the scientist in you is content, but what about the man? What about his needs? Love, passion, companionship? What about those, Severus?” Albus insists.

It’s not the first time Albus asks similar questions. Previously Severus always placated him with some standard reassurance. The difference is that now his best friend is dead. Doesn’t matter how fervently Severus tried to pretend throughout their whole conversation that he was talking to Albus, the truth is he wasn’t. He will never again; no matter how convincing a facsimile the old man’s portrait is, it isn’t Albus. That revelation urges Severus to be honest, even if he knows very well that he is too late.

“Draco is very young. He desperately wanted an out from under his father’s clutches and idolized me, had a false picture of me. I think he now starts to realize that I’m not exactly like the picture he had drawn of me, and I’m not sure I can be what he needs me, or wishes me to be,” he admits resignedly.

“And what about what _you_ need, Severus?” The sorrow in the painted eyes forces Severus to look away.

“I believe that for a long time I’ve put Draco in the greatly unfair position where I’ve constantly expected something _more_ from him, something so close to perfection that it could only exist in my imagination or in feverish dreams.” And it _did_ exist there, or so Severus thought until very recently. The fantasy – or could it really be a memory? – of the warm cocoon of feelings he experienced after his accident and later during his drunken escapades has slowly poisoned his very real relationship with Draco.  “I made the mistake of measuring our relationship to these too high standards and thus always found it somewhat lacking. And now, I’m not sure if we can get over our misconceptions. I’m not sure there is anything to salvage, if there had ever been. We have built a marriage on illusions, built a castle out of sparkly fog, and now, when dawn breaks, the whole building is evaporating into thin air.”

There is a long silence after Severus’ confession. It’s only when Severus readies himself to depart, when Albus’ portrait speaks again.

“I hope you will find the happiness you deserve, my dear friend,” he says earnestly.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been destined for happiness, Albus,” Severus says before he leaves Minerva’s office.


	20. Misconceptions

After following a villager’s instructions it’s easy for Severus to find Darnell’s house. It’s a modest building on the edge of Ottery St. Catchpole. The whitewashed little cottage stands in the middle of a sizeable garden. Given that it’s the middle of winter, the garden is not as impressive as it must look in the warmer months, currently covered under a soft blanket of snow. The black and white monochrome of the house and the garden is disturbed by the vivacious colours of the three glass greenhouses. After Severus sees movement from one of the glass domes, he navigates his steps towards the greenhouse closest to the house.

When he steps into the building he arrives into spring; he quickly casts a cooling charm over his heavy winter clothes. The place is ready to burst with all the flourishing greenery inside; as Severus takes a look around he realizes that he must have arrived to a potion maker’s paradise.  He recognizes at least two highly sought and very hard to cultivate potion ingredients at the very first glance! He would deny it until his dying breath but at the moment he resembles Albus in a sweet shop. He is so absorbed in all the wonders of the place that he doesn’t take notice of the man who appears on the other end of the aisle.

“Can I help you, sir?” The question comes from behind Severus’ back and he guiltily turns around to greet the newcomer. It’s a wizard of advanced age with white hair and a thin frame. He wears gardening gloves, soiled with dirt. He stands at least 30 feet from Severus, and he doesn’t make any moves to get closer. He seems extremely tense.

“Good morning, sir,” Severus says when he at last finds his manners. “I’m looking for Mr Emmett Darnell.”

The man chews on his lower lip and the nervous gesture seems oddly juvenile on his wizened face.

“That would be me,” the old man says, clearly reluctantly. “And who are you, sir?” he asks, his gaze avoiding Severus.

“I’m Severus Snape,” Severus introduces himself. “I’m a friend of Albus Dumbledore,” he clarifies. “Or more precisely I was,” he corrects himself quietly.

“Oh, the spellsmith and potion expert, right? Albus mentioned you a few times,” Darnell says hesitantly.

“Yes,” Severus nods and takes a step closer to Darnell. Oddly, the old man simultaneously takes a hasty step back. Darnell tries to keep a blank expression but Severus gets the impression that the man is frightened of him. The realization is accompanied by a pang of distress which quickly turns into annoyance. The old man is surely one of those fools who still believe him to be a follower of the Dark Lord Voldemort. Severus stops and says a bit too sharply, “It’s not my intention to hurt you.”

Darnell fidgets like a young man on his first romantic outing – his body language is very incongruent with his age, Severus thinks.

“I know that,” Darnell offers embarrassed. “I’m just a bit… I think it’s called socially awkward these days,” he offers as an explanation, his eyes stubbornly on the ground.

Indeed, the whole conversation is extremely awkward; it makes Severus question his decision to come here.

“I see.” Severus doesn’t really know what else to say. Maybe he is a bit socially awkward, too. “Anyways, Albus…” There is a heartbeat of silence, “or more precisely his portrait advised me to come here. He implied that you might help me in my research in a certain subject.”

“Did he now?” Darnell mumbles and he seems displeased. “What’s this certain subject of yours?”

Suddenly Severus feels utterly ridiculous and foolish; it’s not enough that he has to repeat his well-practiced query about the tendrils of magic, once again, he must do it in front of a man who believes him to be a Death Eater, acts like an awkward adolescent in an antediluvian body, and to crown it all he must do all of this from a ridiculous distance. The whole situation angers Severus tremendously. He refuses to have a conversation from the opposite side of the greenhouse, so with the same care he would approach a skittish animal, he takes a tentative step towards the man. Darnell’s frame gets even stiffer, but he doesn’t flee, so Severus takes one more step. His skin itches with his annoyance. Darnell seems to be on the edge of running, his eyes finally fixed on Severus. His pupils surrounded by green irises are slightly opaque and his gaze is filled with a bone-deep sorrow. He reminds Severus of a doe caught in a Lumos spell.

“I recently came upon an interesting magical phenomenon,” Severus starts his customary speech. He has repeated it enough times to find it tedious already. He is a bit distracted by scratching his still itching skin and absentmindedly steps closer to Darnell. “I experienced…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Darnell becomes ghostly white, his panicked eyes fixed on Severus’ hand. Severus follows his gaze and gasps. “…the exact same thing,” he finishes lamely, his eyes on the very faint and weak but still visible motifs on his skin. It’s nothing like the powerful lightshow from his dreams, it’s not even as discernible as it was on the day of Albus’ funeral, but it’s recognizable. Severus eyes snap back to Darnell, and indeed, the old man sports the exact same patterns on his neck and face! “What in Merlin’s name is happening?” Severus exclaims.

Darnell meets his eyes and the panic is steadily replaced by resignation and finally determination. He straightens his back, presses his lips into a narrow line and with his head motions towards the back of the greenhouse. “I think for this conversation we should sit down,” he says, then he turns around and walks off.

Severus follows him without hesitation. Darnell leads him to a table with two chairs in the other end of the glass building, and unceremoniously sits down in one of the chairs, pulls down his gloves and with a wave of his hand – a hand covered by magical tendrils – offers the other chair to Severus.

When both of them are seated, Darnell leans back in his chair with a sigh – it’s not a relaxed posture at all, he probably tries to be as far from Severus as possible. “I hope as a friend of Albus I can ask for your discretion in the matters we are to discuss here today,” the old man says.

Severus’ only answer is a fierce nod.

“Thank you.” He pulls a deep, fortifying breath before he begins. “You most likely are experiencing the backlash of Fae magic used on your person previously. It’s a harmless form of Life Magic, in most cases used for healing,” he explains.

Severus, once again, nods his understanding.

“There are usually two ways for those without Fae blood to experience this. The most common way if they were healed by someone of Faeish origins. During the healing process a link is established between healer and patient, through which the life force and magic travels between them.” Darnell says all this in a rapid monotone, like he is repeating a lecture which he wants to get over as soon as humanly possible.

Severus frowns. “I can’t recall any healing sessions like the one you describe.” But even as he says this Severus cannot help but think about the night in the Dark Unicorn, the blizzard and the Abraxans and then… light, warmth.

Darnell shrugs, but doesn’t offer an answer.

Severus’ eyes almost unconsciously seek out the patterns on the other man’s skin. “Were you too healed by a Fae? Is this why you also have these motifs?” he asks curiously.

“No. I… I have Fae blood on my mother’s side of the family.” Darnell seems very reluctant to admit it. “Most likely this is what triggers your own half buried healing link.”

“Anyone with the right bloodline can trigger the dormant magic in me?” Severus wants to know.

“Theoretically, yes. With time the healing link closes off and cannot be triggered anymore. The speed of its closing depends on the amount of magic channelled through the link, the time of exposure and number of occasions when the link was used,” Darnell explains, lecture voice once again on.

There is something that the old man doesn’t say, Severus is sure of that. This man is way too similar to Albus in this regard. No wonder they had been friends.

Severus contemplates what he has heard. “I cannot be absolutely sure, but I suspect that this healing link might have been established two years ago. Is it possible for me to still experience the aftereffects?”

“Well, that’s quite a long time, but I guess it’s possible.”

Severus doesn’t like the imprecision of the comment; this lack of facts frustrates him. “Albus’ portrait mentioned myths and misconceptions obscuring the topic. Why is that?”

“Haven’t you read his book?” Darnell asks back.

Quite frankly, Severus hasn’t. The book was released just before Albus’ death, and after it had happened Severus simply couldn’t face the smiling Albus on the back cover. He stored away his copy as a backup for the day when missing his friend becomes truly unbearable.

“I haven’t had the opportunity yet,” he simply says.

Darnell’s look is way too knowing, filled with understanding and grief. Severus is not sure he appreciates it. Darnell must sense this, because he answers Severus’ original question. “Faes has been hunted for a long time by certain wizards and witches. It’s safer to keep to ourselves,” he concludes with a dark expression. He looks like somebody who has personal experience in the matter.

Severus wants to ask more but the strict line of the man’s mouth discourages any questions in this particular topic. Severus resigns himself to read Albus’ book.

“What is the other case?” he asks instead.

“Pardon?”                                                                                                                                                                                    

“You mentioned two ways for those without Fae blood to experience this phenomenon. I wonder what the other way is.”

There is the embarrassed fidgeting once again. Darnell is obviously unhappy with Severus’ line of questioning. “Oh. It’s by establishing a life bond with a Fae.”

“How does that work?” Severus inquires.

Darnell looks everywhere but at Severus.

“It happens by the classic means, believe me. A Fae finds his or her one true love and their magic and life force connects with their beloved’s. Then they live happily ever after. Or in some cases they don’t.”

One true love? For Severus it sounds unrealistic. Like the gibberish found in romantic drivel: fated mates, destined to get together. Quite frankly, Severus is extremely reluctant to accept the concept of an instant love match, composed by a higher power.

Some of his thoughts must show on his face, because Darnell immediately reacts.

“There are a lot of misconceptions and superstitions surrounding the Fae. There’s no thrall or destined mate or such. The bond is formed by the Fae’s emotions, not the other way around.”

“What if the Fae’s feelings aren’t returned?” Severus asks and instantly feels very out of character; why is he discussing the romantic life of mythical beings with an octogenarian?

“When the Fae’s feeling are unrequited, the bond is still born from the love of the Fae but never matures and slowly dies away.”

Darnell’s sadness is plain to see and it makes Severus’ next breath heavier than usual. “I see. If a bond is unfulfilled, then later could another be established?”

Darnell gives him a bitter smile. “No. A Fae only gives their heart once.”

“Did you ever…” Severus realises halfway through the question how rude it is to ask something like this. “It’s improper, I’m sorry…”

“I lost him,” Darnell says plainly and his pain and despair is so palpable and raw, so all-consuming, that this time it’s Severus who casts his eyes down to avert the other’s gaze.

There are a few long moments of silence before Severus comes up with a more acceptable query. “Is there a way to ascertain who has been the source of the magic used on me?”

“Not one I know of.”

At this point they are interrupted by a loud, high-pitched shout, “Mr Darnell!” coming from the entrance of the greenhouse, closely followed by the noise of running feet before a fair-haired, small child propels itself with astonishing speed right into Darnell’s lap. The pale motifs on both their skins die out immediately.

This validates Severus’ earlier observations about Draco’s touch: outside interference shots down the link.

“Miss Victoire,” Darnell greets the newly arrived guest.

An elegant young woman appears in the mini whirlwind’s wake, most likely its mother. Darnell smiles at her kindly.

“Mrs Weasley, I have already prepared your usual package of herbs.”

Severus stands from the table and steps away, leaving Darnell to his business transaction. He leisurely walks between the aisles of plants, admiring the wide collection of rare and very valuable herbs and flowers. Albus was right; the potion expert in him is thrilled by the discovery of this place.

In the background Darnell is still chattering away with the blond woman and child, and Severus has some time to organize his thoughts.

The most feasible scenario is that he had been healed by a Fae, most likely after the accident with the Abraxans. Draco said it was him who had taken care of Severus, but it clearly isn’t true. On the night of Albus’ injury he visited the Dark Unicorn once again. It’s possible that he was triggered there by the same person who healed him previously – who, unfortunately, could be almost anyone. Damn all the alcohol for he cannot recall most parts of the evening, so he also cannot tell how or when he became aware of the magic. Was he still in the inn or at home? Did he really make love with somebody? Draco said they had spent the night together after he had gotten back from the Dark Unicorn. But if he was with Draco, how can he remember the bright cocoon of Fae magic surrounding him? Did he take somebody home from the tavern? In this case what happened to them?

Severus’ steps abruptly falter when a new thought emerges.

Or… was it somebody already living in his house? Somebody who – according to Draco – was also present in the inn?

A gentle face with big green eyes appears before Severus’ mind’s eyes. A boy with creamy, white skin, coltish legs and a beautiful smile. Severus suddenly remembers good-natured conversations and small favours and the flash of that stubborn will in the boy’s eyes. He imagines that lithe body covered in intricate tendrils of magic and the picture his mind conjures simply takes his breath away.

Merlin! Was it Potter all along?

And if it was really him then why the heck did he disappear?

The approach of Darnell, sans the two blondes, puts an end to his contemplations. The old man stops farther away than normal chatting distance.

“Do you know a boy named Harry Potter?” Severus blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“No. Sorry.” Darnell answers, his infernal fidgeting in full force once again. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks with a searching look. There is some openness in his face which wasn’t there earlier. One may even call it hopefulness.

Severus can’t pay the man his full attention as he is still distracted by his earlier train of thought. “Your garden is impressive. Would you be willing to supply my potions laboratory with some of these plants?” he asks out of the blue.

Darnell too is obviously surprised by the abrupt question. “It depends on what you need, but I’m not against a contract with your business.”

“Well, I need to speak with my business partner about the details. It’s mostly Draco… my husband who takes care of our potions business,” Severus explains absentmindedly.

Darnell’s face closes off. His voice is cool and business-like. “Of course. If you and your husband work out the details, you can send it via owl.”

“Yes, we’ll do that. I must speak to Draco.” And definitely not the business will be the main topic. “Thank you for your help, Mr Darnell.”

“You are welcome, Master Snape.” Darnell hesitates for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he offers. “Albus was a dear friend to me as well. He always spoke with great affection about you.”

Severus can’t find the right words to say. “Yes, I… Thank you. I will be in touch.”

He leaves the premises without really seeing his surroundings, lost deeply in his thoughts.


	21. My Dear Husband

“Where have you been?” Draco asks the moment Severus steps into the living room. His grey eyes are narrowed and his voice is icy. Severus should probably count himself lucky that he wasn’t ambushed in the foyer by his angered spouse; frankly, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

“I visited a promising potential potion supplier then I took a walk as I was in need of some fresh air,” he offers smoothly.

“What potion supplier?” Draco asks, his voice full of suspicion.

“An old man named Darnell. He has the most excellent greenhouses in Devon.”

“I thought you didn’t make decisions regarding the potions business without me,” Draco says accusingly.

“I didn’t. I’m discussing it with you right now.”

Draco doesn’t seem satisfied with Severus’ calm answer. “Is he any good?”

“What I saw of his garden is exceptional. He has several unique plants to offer which we previously had to ship from the continent.”

Draco’s frown, which he has been wearing since Severus arrived, lightens somewhat. “Splendid. If this old codger’s plants prove to be acceptable we can finally cease associating with that buffoon Longbottom. Honestly, that man is a shame to wizard kind,” he says with a disgusted sneer.

“Regardless of your dislike of Mr Longbottom, he has always been a reliable source,” Severus counters honestly. He is no big fan of Neville Longbottom, but the man has always been a correct business partner.

“I don’t care. Longbottom is a nuisance worth getting rid of,” Draco declares with conviction.

Severus thinks it’s useless to argue about this. “I told Mr Darnell we would produce a list of supplies we wish for and Mr Darnell provides us with the details,” he says instead.

“Sure, we can do that. I’ll see to it tomorrow.” Draco uses his business tone, no doubt already composing the list in his head.

Severus nods his agreement.

After a few moments of contemplation on Draco’s part, his face once again is full of suspicion. “And this visit took you all day?”

Severus feels they are getting closer to the real topic; he knows it’s crucial for him to stay cool-headed and collected. 

“No, although I have a long discussion with Mr Darnell regarding my latest research.” Severus watches Draco closely for a sign that gives him away; his beautiful face looks as if it has been carved out of marble. Way too expressionless. “And as I mentioned earlier I also took a walk.”

A malicious glint appears in Draco’s eyes.

“Oh, yes. How could I forget? Let me guess: you went to the cemetery? Which one of them was it today, the old man or Potter’s mother? I must admit that the old man’s death has lent some much needed variety to your routine. Your obsession with a dead woman started to become a bit embarrassing,” he adds cruelly.

“You always are especially nasty when you feel threatened.” Severus observes. ”I wonder what makes you feel insecure… Surely not the mention of my research?” His voice features a hint of mocking, but under that it’s the coldest steel.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Your delusions hold no interest for me,” Draco snaps at him.

“Indeed. In this case it’s not going to matter to you at all that I‘ve come to a breakthrough.”

“Well, no,” Draco deadpans.

“You are an accomplished liar, Draco. Clearly talented.” Severus’ praise is delivered in a dangerously emotionless tone. “That must be the reason I didn’t suspect anything was amiss for two years.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco says, closed off.

“I talk about all your lies, _my dear husband_.” The endearment is soaked in venom. “Or at least the bunch I have become aware of today. Your lie about your role in my recovery after the Abraxan injured me two years ago, or the lack thereof. About our first night of passion we supposedly spent together right before our hasty engagement.” Severus pulls a deep breath through his nose to hold his temper at bay. “About your part in the departure of Harry Potter.”

Draco sneers at him arrogantly. “You should thank me for the last one. I did you a favour.”

Severus lets out a hollow laugh. “You have never in your whole life done a favour for anyone, at least not without a much higher gain for yourself.”

“What can I say? I’m a Slytherin after all,” Draco says with eyebrows lifted challengingly.

“Indeed. One more reason I should have found your supposed actions suspicious; you healing me, taking care of me, comforting me… making love with me that first time.”

Draco smirks. “I think I cannot be accused of lacking in the last regard.”

“You are an expert in the art of seduction, yes. An incubus would envy you,” Severus says matter-of-factly. Draco seems pleased. “But it was not you I spent that first night with.”

Draco glowers at him angrily. “How would you know? You were blind drunk,” Draco spits out.

Severus knows he is getting closer; Draco becoming angry and defensive is a good sign. “You are the incarnation of a man’s wet dream, Draco, but you do not possess the warmth I experienced that night.”

There is silence which is telling in itself. The frown on Draco’s face deepens once again.

Severus goes on. “I realized today that I could not spend that night with you, even if I woke up in a rumpled bed by your side. Whose place you took, I wonder. Was it somebody from the tavern? Or somebody else? Somebody already living with us?” His voice is deceptively light.

Draco huffs defensively, and he intertwines his arms over his chest. “If this is your way of indulging in sexual fantasies involving the house-elf then please cease before I vomit.” He tries to deflect the topic with his tasteless jest.

“It was Harry Potter, wasn’t it?” Severus doesn’t try to pretend it’s a real question. “He healed me and later took care of me in the tavern; he was whom I made love with that night.” His anger is boiling, right under the surface, not yet unleashed, but so close.

Something shifts in Draco’s whole demeanour as he snorts. “Does it truly matter if it was I or Potter? You were so desperate for somebody, anybody. You’re just a pathetic lonely old man; I’m sure you would have fucked a willing goat that night.” His gorgeous features are contorted with hatred.

“What happened to him?” Snape asks sharply.

Draco shrugs. “He left.” He pauses, doubtlessly for dramatic effect. “After doing me a few favours.”

“You had no right!” Severus snarls, the last restraints on his fury loosening.

“I had every right! You are mine. You have been for a very long time. And then this upstart came here and thought that he could ruin all my hard work!” Draco yells, losing his composure.

“What did you do?” Severus growls.

“Nothing less than he had been asking for.”

Severus, finally reaching the edge of his rope, roars. “What did you do?”

Draco’s flinch is almost imperceptible, but Severus is a very observant man; he sees it, even if it’s expertly hidden behind Draco’s obnoxious grin as he answers.

“Told him some hard truths after which he left on his own free will, in the exact same state he arrived. Well, except perhaps his deflowering,” Draco says mockingly.

Snape feels coldness seep into his stomach at the thought; their night together was in all likelihood Harry’s first time and he can’t even remember it. Severus feels ashamed.

Something must show on his face, because Draco is smiling, delighted by Severus’ reaction.  “You know what I think, Severus?” he asks with the same smile. ”If he gave a flying fuck about you he would have stayed.” Draco has always known where to hit for maximum effect; now too he hit his target spot on. “This must be such a painful truth to you,” he says in mock sympathy. “I watched you perving over him; that delicious, innocent young thing. Don’t think I didn’t see all the looks,” Draco says, eyeing him calculatingly.

“He was just a boy. My junior apprentice. My late best friend’s son.” Even when Severus recites all these facts, suddenly defensive, he feels his guilt spreading over his chest. Draco is a cruel manipulator, but there is some truth to his words, even if Severus has denied it for a very long time.

“That only proves what a desperate old pervert you are,” Draco counters. “He is the exact same age as I, give or take a few weeks, and alas, you married me and have happily fucked me for two years.”

Severus has no reply.

There is a feverish glint in Draco’s eyes as he speaks on. “I have been there for you for years, been your husband for two of them. Even before that I had been waiting for you for ages! But you have been obsessed with Saint Potter instead.” His cheeks are flushed and his voice is getting higher with every word. “Potter this and Potter that, you rescheduling _my_ lessons, then that ridiculous sleigh ride!” Draco is clearly getting hysterical. “And his sucking up to you was pathetic too. Both of you are pathetic fools! What if it really was Saint Potter who you made _love_ with? After that night you couldn’t even spare a sideway glance to his blushing virgin self, because you were so very desperate to get into _my_ pants!”

There’s a very long and heavy silence. What could Severus say? Harry Potter was his junior apprentice, his responsibility when he left Severus’ house abruptly among suspicious circumstances, but Severus was so absorbed in his own problems, his budding emotions, his relationship with Draco and all the things it included, that he never bothered to go after him, or at least to ask questions about his departure. He wanted to believe Draco, so he did. And now, Severus has no clues where to find Harry.

Finally Draco is the one to break the silence.

“In the end what does it matter? Potter left you. If he wanted to he could have contacted you. He could have stayed. He didn’t. What does that tell you? If he wanted you to find him he would have made it possible. It’s time to face the truth, Severus, _my dear husband._ He didn’t, and still doesn’t want you.”

Severus can’t deny the truth of his words. Draco is panting after his passionate rant, and Severus is just watching him like he has never seen him before.

When Severus finds his voice again, it’s strangely empty. “I think our marriage is over. To be honest I think it’s been over for a long time, if it ever started at all.”

“You are leaving me?” Draco hisses, his fists clenched, his knuckles white and slightly trembling. “Because of this? Because of fucking Potter?”

“Yes, I’m leaving you, but not for those reasons.” Severus says simply, devoid of emotion. “Our marriage has been built on illusions. The Draco and Severus who married each other does not exist; and we… well, we simply bring the worst out of each other. We both deserve better.”

“I won’t go back to my father.” Draco pales alarmingly and his trembling gets more pronounced.  His eyes are feverish, almost feral, and his magic is crackling around him. “I won’t!” he shrieks, and his magic restlessly whirls around him.

Draco is clearly falling apart at the seams right in front of Severus’ eyes.  Severus steps closer to him, grasps him by both his upper arms, and tries to anchor him. He guides his distraught husband to the sofa, settling him down. Draco’s magic is storming around them on the very edge of an uncontrolled outburst.

“Dobby,” Severus yells for the house-elf.

The elf appears immediately. “Yes, Master Severus.”

“Bring me the special calming draught, quickly!” Severus orders, desperately holding Draco, his tight grip more than likely bruising the other. The agitated magic around them makes both their hairs stand up.

The elf pops out then right back in a few moments. Severus pours the potion down Draco’s throat who sags against him right after swallowing the contents of the phial. The storm of his magic calms with him as well. Severus lets out a sigh of relief.

“I can’t go back to him,” Draco whispers, his eyelids half-closed. Severus settles next to him on the sofa. Draco, like a ragdoll, leans against Severus’ shoulder.

Severus has never in his life hated anyone as much as he hates Lucius Malfoy in that moment. “You don’t have to. You are not dependent on anyone, anymore. Not on your father and not on me. You are a talented potion maker, you are the man behind our potions business. You can stand on your own. You have independent income and you also own several properties. You can get your mastery in a few months. You don’t have to go back. Never again.”

The house-elf brings a blanket and Severus covers Draco with it. He sits with him on the couch for a long while, absently petting his hair, like one does with a child. Eventually Draco calms down. Although he is very still against Severus he knows Draco is awake.

Severus’ voice is slightly rusty when he speaks once more. “Salem Academy once again offered me a research position for the upcoming semester. It’s a three month long contract. My expertise in spellcrafting could be a great asset to their research team. I’m going to accept.”

There is no answer forthcoming from Draco. They sit there in silence for a very long time.


	22. Vivification

When Severus steps out of the attorney’s office in Ottery St. Catchpole he feels significantly lighter than before. The young lawyer seems very thorough and a no-nonsense kind of person. Severus will have to thank Minerva for the recommendation. Percival is a former student of hers, someone who specializes in divorce cases.

The cool April air of the village is refreshing after the attorney’s office and all the international Floo terminals before that. Severus is experiencing the equivalent of the syndrome what Muggles call jetlag, and he is a bit groggy. He could have gone home and acclimated before visiting the attorney, but he wanted to get it over with. Draco and he only need to sign the papers now, and their divorce is official. The last three months apart only cemented Severus’ resolution that is was better for the both of them if they separated. Thank Merlin and the prenuptial agreement they don’t have any matters to fight over and prolong the procedure. Hopefully Draco has already left the mansion, as Severus requested, and moved the potions laboratory too. As much as Severus adored his potions, it was only fair that Draco was the one to continue their potions business. After all he was the talented brewer behind their success.

Severus has been so lost in his thoughts and he’s been enjoying the fresh air so much that he hasn’t even realized where his feet have been taking him until he is standing right there, outside of Darnell’s property. The garden is beautiful in its April glory, lush and fertile, a tantalizing mix of colours and scents, all celebrating nature’s awakening.

But even in the face of all the beauty there’s a frown marring Severus’ features. Other than Harry, Draco, and the divorce, Darnell was also a topic that has haunted him in the last few months. Something is amiss with the man, but Severus cannot pinpoint exactly what it is.

Even if Draco is taking the potions business, there is no reason why Severus couldn’t visit a supplier. More so, an old friend of Albus. With this thought he walks through the gate and into the greenhouses.

He finds the owner kneeling on the ground, tending to some orchids, his back towards Severus.

“Good afternoon, Mr Darnell.”

Severus clearly catches the man off-guard and the old man is startled by Severus’ appearance.

“Master Snape. I wasn’t expecting you,” he says awkwardly.

Severus once again has the mental image of a clumsy young man in an old man’s body.  As Darnell struggles to his feet Severus feels an urge to help him, he even lifts his hand to hold Darnell’s elbow, but from the old man’s glare he suspects that he wouldn’t be welcome.

Severus pulls back his hand and answers the man’s question instead. “Yes, I needed to run some errands nearby and I thought to visit.”

“Is everything all right with the supplies I shipped you so far?” Darnell asks, now back on two feet.

“Yes, Dra… my partner tells me they’re excellent.”

Darnell nods. “I’m glad to hear that.”

They stand in silence. There is something different about the man, Severus muses. Somehow he is duller, more fragile. He looks… well, old. Even if his features hasn’t changed, his posture is still the same, Severus has the impression that Darnell’s got really old, really quick. He is somehow greyer, like he is lacking some light he possessed previously.

“If you are not here about the shipment then what can I do for you?” Darnell breaks the silence.

Severus’ gaze wanders to his own hand. “Why aren’t we glowing?” he blurts out.

“Well,” the man fidgets, “your connection has most likely closed.”

“Oh.” It’s not rational, but Severus feels saddened by this.

“And in case it’s still open, in my age one cannot light up like a Christmas tree anymore, right?” The nonchalance with which he asks seems false.

“Why not?” The curious scientist in Severus insists to ask.

“With age the life-force and magic get depleted,” Darnell offers somewhat reluctantly as an explanation.

“About that… I’ve read Albus’ book,” Severus starts.

“Congratulations,” Darnell interrupts dryly.

“And I have a few questions.”

“Of course you have,” Darnell mutters, followed by a sigh. “Would you mind if we sat down inside the house for this conversation? My legs are protesting against standing in one place for too long. And I could use a cup of tea.”

“Not at all. Please, lead the way,” Severus accepts.

They walk through the greenhouse and the herb garden to get to the cottage. Darnell leads Severus to the kitchen and offers him a seat, then busies himself with preparing their tea. The kitchen is like the house itself, modest and simple, with white walls, hardwood floor, a stone fireplace and warm-toned wood cabinets surrounding the dining table.

They both sit at the table, steaming cup of tea in hand when Darnell finally asks, “Did you enjoy Albus’ book?”

The tiniest smile sneaks onto Severus’ face. “It resembles its author greatly, especially in its overly romantic nature.”

Darnell nods with his own small smile on his face. “I see what you mean, although I found it refreshingly factual.”

“It shares quite a lot of interesting information on Fae life bonds,” Severus adds.

“It does.”

“The bond is an intriguing notion, although as I see it, the side effects can be really unpleasant. If I recall correctly an unfulfilled or broken bond can age prematurely or even kill the Fae.”

“A tragic fate, I think Albus called it in the book,” Darnell says dryly, and although he doesn’t roll his eyes, Severus thinks he wants to.

“Indeed.”

Severus thought about this a lot. Potter coming from a family with Fae blood, Lily mysteriously dying from a ‘genetic disorder’ even before becoming forty, that man at the funeral with those green eyes, a man in his late forties. Severus has all those puzzle pieces, but the whole picture still refuses to solidify.

“It occurred to me that if you lost your bonded, then you must suffer from the symptoms of losing a bond,” Severus tries a more direct approach with minimal guilt.

“There are things we cannot change, no matter how much we wish to.” The answer is as cryptic as any of Albus’ had been. No wonder these two were friends.

At the end of his rope, Severus blurts out, “Exactly how old are you?”

He leans forward in his chair as Darnell opens his mouth to answer when several things happen in succession.

With a loud pop two figures appear in the kitchen. Severus’ gaze immediately snaps to them and his eyes widen in recognition. Draco and the house-elf, Dobby, are standing in the middle of Darnell’s kitchen. Then, with a guilty expression towards Severus, the elf, with a snap of his fingers, collects both Severus’ and Darnell’s wands. Only Severus’ surprise and remaining grogginess after the long journey home allows this ignominy. Surprisingly Darnell’s comes not from the man but from one of the drawers in the kitchen. The elf hands the wands to Draco and Severus shoots to his feet.

“What the hell, Draco?”

“I heard you were back in the country,” Draco drawls lazily.

The elf lowers his eyes to the floor shamefaced.

Draco looks as someone who just stepped right out of a fashion magazine. He wears a carbon coloured leather tailed coat that suspiciously looks like it’s made of snake skin, with tight black trousers. This must be the new rave amongst the young and rich. He looks like the modern interpretation of a villain from a regency romance, only the cravat is missing. And the walking stick!

“I hoped,” Draco says with a pout, “in vain it seems, that you would bend your steps homeward first. To your husband.”

Severus sighs. “Draco, we are divorced.”

“No, we aren’t,” denies Draco vehemently just when Darnell asks wide eyed “Are you now?”

“It’s a question of technicalities, but in all the meaningful ways we are,” Severus answers with all the patience he is able to muster.

Draco shrugs Severus’ reply off. “Anyways, where is Potter? The elf said he was here too.”

“What?” Severus gaze immediately jumps to Dobby, but the elf is looking at Darnell, with joy and adoration is his giant eyes. Darnell looks back at him with a growing panic on his face.

Draco must have replaced the two wands in his hand with his own, because now he is directing it at Darnell. Severus steps towards him, but not before Draco yells, “ _Finite Incantatem!_ ”

For a long moment everything is eerily still. Then, nothing happens. Darnell blinks, but he looks just the same he looked previously.

“Draco, are you insane?” Severus, once more, moves towards Draco.

“Stay there or I hurt him,” Draco says with his wand aimed at Darnell. “Make sure he won’t move,” he orders the elf, who albeit reluctantly and with an unhappy expression, but waves in Severus’ direction. He feels as the elven magic glues him to the floor.

“Let me go!” he snarls at Draco, but he ignores Severus, speaking to Darnell.

“You couldn’t use an offensive spell to save your life,” he taunts the old man. “One more thing in which I’m superior to you, I guess.”

Severus is seething with rage, “Draco, don’t you dare!” he hisses, but Draco doesn’t even deign to look at him.

With his cockiest grin Draco is still solely focused on Darnell, who hasn’t moved from his seat, his face pale, but the thin line of his mouth determined. The elf stands between them buzzing with anxiety.

“Now I only have to decide what to use first,” Draco laments.

Darnell straightens his back and raises his head. “It’s not too polite, young man, to invade one’s kitchen uninvited then pull a wand on them,” he says stoically.

“Fuck politeness,” Draco hisses back.

“Exactly,” Darnell replies flatly, then says “ _Vivificatem_!”

Suddenly the wand falls out of Draco’s hand and he violently spins around his axis. The tails of his designer coat swirl around him before with a sharp smack they wrap around his middle. His arms jerk to his chest, crossing each other, his fingertips touching his opposite shoulders, similarly to the pose of an Egyptian mummy or someone in a strait jacket. The fabric doesn’t stop swirling and rippling around him and as the leather gyrates it looks exactly like a python wrapping its body around its prey. In fact, the previously fashionable coat now _is_ somehow a gargantuan snake with a giant head filled with enormous fangs emerging behind Draco’s head. By now the snake’s muscular body wholly surrounds a red faced and panicking Draco, who is yelling frantically.

“Elf! Elf, you sodding idiot, do something! Help! Get this off me! Take it off! Take it off!” he shrieks, his voice reaching new heights with his every demand.

The elf looks fascinated and not too eager to come to his master’s help. Darnell’s wearing a curious expression, while Severus is staring at the spectacle astonished.

With regret clear on his face, Dobby waves his hand. The coat immediately falls back to its original form leaving a very dishevelled Draco behind: sweating, red faced and panting in torn clothes and with the worst kind of rat-nest on his head in his well coiffured hair’s place.

As soon as Draco is able to move again he starts to struggle with the coat, trying frantically to get rid of it.

“Take it off!” he shrieks hysterically to the elf. Finally he manages to wriggle his way out of the offending garment and throws it towards the elf. “Take it…” he shouts when the elf catches it with a triumphant smile.

“Master Draco is gave a clothes to Dobby,” he says grinning.

“What?! I did not!” Draco cries out scandalised.

“Oh, but you did! Master Draco is not Dobby’s master anymore. Dobby is now free!” the elf declares happily.

“You little vermin, you tricked me! You’re going to regret this!” Draco bends down to collect his wand, but Dobby is having none of it.

“Draco Malfoy can’t threaten Dobby no more,” he says, and with a quick snap of his long fingers Draco vanishes, his wand still lying on Darnell’s hardwood floor.

For a few seconds nobody speaks. Severus feels as the elven magic releases its hold around him, but he doesn’t move. Then Darnell bursts into a wild, uncontrolled belly-laugh. Soon he laughs so hard, that tears are leaking from his eyes. Severus can’t repress the accompanying chuckle that stumbles out of his mouth. It takes some time before they are able to stop laughing. Severus staggers back to the table and takes his former seat, and the elf pulls their wands out of the coat’s hidden pocket and gives it back to them.

“Where did you send him?” Severus asks after he is able to speak once again.

“Draco Malfoy should visits his favourite aunt more,” the elf declares, and Severus burst into another round of laughing.

Darnell waits him out with a questioning expression.

It takes a few minutes, but in the end Severus pulls himself together. “His aunt Bellatrix hasn’t been herself for a while now. I don’t know what happened, but let me tell you, it’s a definite improvement. She is mostly harmless, most of the time she sings some child’s rhyme to herself and braids her hair with a vacant smile again and again. She is a permanent guest in the Sunny Meadow,” Severus explains.

“What’s that place?” Darnell asks.

Severus’s smile sharpens. “Sunny Meadow, a mental health treatment facility for witches, wizards and centaurs.”

Darnell seems relieved by this, and the elf looks way too smug.

After some contemplation Darnell says, “It will take some time for a raging Draco to get out of there in his current state.”

“Most assuredly,” Severus deadpans, then he turns to the house-elf, still standing on the same spot with his newly acquired coat in his arms. “Thank you for your assistance, Dobby. If you are looking for an employment, Headmistress McGonagall mentioned that she was looking for some house-elves to help out in the kitchens in Hogwarts. Tell her that for a recommendation she should contact me.”

“Thank you, Master Snape!” the elf squeals excitedly.

Severus nods

Dobby darts a lingering gaze in Darnell’s direction.

“Thank you, Dobby,” the old man adds. “If you ever wish to visit me, please feel free to do so.”

“Dobby will comes! Thank you!” he agrees with his usual enthusiasm, and hugs Darnell who hugs him back with a smile, murmuring something in the bat-like ears. When they release each other the elf salutes them before he pops out of existence.

Severus gives Darnell a measuring look before he speaks.

“That was quite a spell,” he says. “Took some time to find the proper incantation I imagine,” he adds slyly.

Darnell becomes tense on the other end of the table. “You could say that.”

“You must be a man of many hidden talents, Mr Emmett Darnell,” Severus observes. “Quite a coincidence that your surname also means ‘something hidden’, isn’t it? But it’s just a name, right? After all, what could you be hiding from, Mr Darnell?” he laments while his eyes never leave the old man’s. “Or should I say Harry?”


	23. Unrequited

After the name ‘Harry’ leaves Severus’ lips Darnell stills into absolute motionlessness, his gaze connected with Severus’. Severus waits, hoping that Darnell, that _Harry_ won’t insult his intelligence with denial. Then, with a heavy sigh Harry deflates.

“It might have been my name some time ago, but it’s not anymore.”

Severus doesn’t argue the declaration, at least not now. Instead he says, “It took a considerable amount of time for me to find you. Although I must admit, I should have started the search much sooner.” The shame once again rears its ugly head in Severus’ chest, but now is not the time to live on that.

“Why were you even looking for me?” Harry wonders as if he honestly cannot fathom the reason.

Severus answers with a question of his own. “Why did you leave?”

Harry shrugs. The gesture lets the boy show through the façade of the old man. “I wasn’t needed anymore.” Something dark and ashamed shifts over his features. “Also I thought I… I thought I did something unforgivable,” he confesses, shrinking into himself.

Severus quirks an eyebrow. What is the boy talking about? “What do you mean?”

“Draco’s aunt Bellatrix, she figured out what I was. She… she…” Harry’s anxiety is palpable as his voice trails off. He reinforces himself with a deep, shuttering breath. “She wanted to take what all the legends say a Fae could offer. It was self-defence, but I thought… I thought I killed her.” He looks at Severus with wide eyes, full of remembered devastation. “I didn’t know otherwise until the front page announcement of your engagement.”

Severus is confused. “And what? You thought it was a good idea to flee from the law without saying a word to me? Why didn’t you ask for my help?”

A hollow laugh leaves Harry’s mouth. “Believe me, at the time it wasn’t an option. No. I was in shock and Draco handed me a Portkey. I wouldn’t have left, but… I wanted to spare you the scandal.”

“And it wouldn’t have been highly suspicious at all,” Severus retorts, voice filled with sarcasm, “if a dead body was found in my house, while my junior apprentice mysteriously disappeared. That scenario would have been an even bigger scandal than you defending yourself against a woman with a widely-known tattered past.”

“I was overwhelmed and wasn’t thinking clearly!” Harry defends himself vehemently.

“And why didn’t you return after you discovered that Bellatrix was blissfully alive?”

“Why should I have returned? It was obvious you managed splendidly without me!”

“Oh, let me think, why should you? Maybe because you were the one who healed me? Or because we made love the previous night? Or what about the fact that we share a fucking Fae life bond!”

“We don’t!” Harry shouts desperately. His denial is followed by absolute silence. He stands up, most likely to distance himself from Severus, turns his back  to him and walks across the kitchen, to turn around again and lean against the counter on the other side of the room, arms intertwined in a defensive position. His next words are much quieter but no less fierce. “We don’t share anything! _I_ developed feelings. _I_ fell in love with you.  _I_ created a bond. All of this is on me, because these are my feelings, my love and my bond. You don’t share anything with me.”

“You are ridiculous!” Severus spits.

“I could feel it, you know!” Harry exclaims. “Your contentedness, your happiness. With Draco! Why should I have returned when you clearly got it all without me?”

“I had nothing! It was always you. For a while I believed it was Draco, but it never worked. You little self-sacrificing idiot! It has always been you.” Severus wants to grab the little brat and shake some sense into him, and he must clench his hands into fists to avoid doing just that.

“Me? Me?” Harry shouts incredulously. “The first time we met you were unconscious! After that I was never more than your junior apprentice. When you…” Harry comes to a halt in his tirade and blushes, “that night when we…” Severus finds Harry’s inability to find words for their night of passion oddly adorable. “You were so drunk you thought I was somebody else entirely! You didn’t even remember. Don’t you dare tell me it has always been me! Even if I fell for you we were never anything else but master and apprentice. To this day I refer to you as Master Snape in my head!”

“You should call me Severus,” he offers with newly regained calmness.

“Why? We aren’t friends. You barely know me at all.”

“I know a few things. You are a stubborn, noble, infuriating fool. You are also kind and willing to help a stranger in his time of need. You are quick-witted, loyal and somebody who I can have a conversation with without the compulsion to pull my hair out in frustration. Although you are clearly lacking in the taste department, if you fell for me, but nobody is perfect.”

Severus aims for humour but Harry remains firmly serious. “Maybe you know all those things but you have never been in love with me.”

And it’s true, Severus knows. He was enamoured with the idea of warmth and belonging, all the feelings he experienced in their connection with Harry. He married Draco under false pretences when he was led to believe that he might experience them with Draco, but he did not. As for Harry, he never really allowed himself to see the boy in any other capacity than his apprentice, even if he had noticed Harry’s attractiveness on an aesthetical level. And in the end he failed Harry as his mentor too, when he didn’t investigate his disappearance and never once questioned its circumstances until Albus’ funeral. Severus knows all of this, but still, he wants to try.

“I’ve never got the chance. To know you better. To become your friend, probably more. Your mother deprived me of eighteen years of friendship, do you plan to do the same?”

“I don’t have eighteen years,” Harry deadpans.

“You could have!” And Severus’ anger flares up once again, making him stand up and take a step towards Harry. He stops when he sees Harry going even tenser. He takes a deep breath before trying to reason with Harry. “In Albus’ book… There was this tale about the princess and her Fae lover. She brought him back after his life force was syphoned away…”

“It’s just a fairy tale!” Harry interrupts vehemently. “And even if it could work like that, they were fully bonded. We aren’t.”

“I could…”

Harry’s eyes become steely. “I refuse to force you into this. I also refuse your pity. I love you and you do not love me. End of story. Quite easy, really.”

“You cannot force me if I’m willing. And it’s definitely not pity.”

“Why would you even want me? I’m an old man,” Harry says, confused.

“Now you are. But you don’t have to stay this way.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Neither do you that it wouldn’t work.” Severus, careful like a dragon-tamer, takes a step in Harry’s direction, then another. They are only a step away from each other. Severus reaches out with his hand, desperate to touch, to connect.

Harry flinches back. Severus lets his hand drop back to by his side.

Harry fidgets awkwardly, but his tone is sharp. “Are you a secret gerontophile? Don’t try to sell me that my current form ignites an ever-burning passion in you.”

Harry becomes a lovely shade of pink, but Severus finds his defiance and sharp retorts even lovelier. He couldn’t resist a smile. “I’m attracted to your personality, or the parts I know. I’m intrigued by you. And I did find your younger forms, the one of my apprentice and the other one I encountered at Albus’ funeral, quite fetching.”

Severus leans towards Harry, meanwhile slowly moving forward, but Harry leans back from him.

“Oh, Merlin. This isn’t creepy at all! And now what, you will be the one to force me then? I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s the traditional way for wizards to handle Fae after all.”

“Wouldn’t you grant me the chance of getting to know you?” It’s one part question, one part plea.

“There is nothing you don’t already know. I’m the pathetic dimwit who fell in unrequited love with you and pays the price for it. And now I think it’s high time for you to leave.”

Harry lifts his hand to gesture towards the door and Severus grabs his wrist, holding him firmly but not roughly.

“You’re a coward, Harry Potter. You would rather wither away in misery than give yourself, give ourselves a chance. But you know what? I’m just as stubborn as you are and I won’t let you push me away without a fight,” Severus promises without hesitation and is delighted with the quiver that runs through Harry.

Severus looks down at his hand around Harry’s wrist, and sees the softest light dancing over their exposed skin. The magical tendrils are barely visible, but they are there, in reaction to Severus’ touch.

Severus smirks, satisfied. “Fine, I will give you the space you requested, for now. I have errands to run, after all I just get back home from Salem, and I still have a house to check on, documents to sign.” He releases Harry’s wrist, with a lingering caress of his fingers over Harry’s pulse point. “But I’m coming back, Harry. You can be sure about that.”


End file.
